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MORAL  PIECES, 


IN 


Prose  and  Verse. 


BY  LYDIA  HTJNTLEY. 


HARTFORD  : 

Sheldon  <§•  Goodwin Printers. 

1815. 


2>«itmt  of  fiDonnecttcut,  ##. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED :  That  on  the  thirtieth  day  of  Deeera- 
^er>  i*1  the  thirty-ninth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United 
states  of  America,  LYD1A  HUNTLEY,  of  the  said  District,  hath 
deposited  in  this  office,  the  title  of  a  Book,  the  right  whereof  she 
claims  as  Authoress  in  the  words  following,  to  wit : 

"  Moral  Pieces,  in  Prose  and  Verse.     By  Lydia  Huntley." 
In  conformity  to  the  act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled  "  An 
act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts 
and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times 
therein  mentioned." 

HENRY  W.  EDWARDS,  Clerk 

ofthe  District  of  Connecticut. 
A  true  copy  of  Record  examined  and  sealed  by  me, 

HENRY  W.  EDWARDS,  Clerk 
of  the  Diftrict  of  Connecticut. 


? 
T?3 

. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 


A  FEW  of  the  productions  now  brought  he- 
fore  the  puhlic  were  intended  for  the  use  of  a 
School ;  hut  the  greater  part  arose  from  the  im 
pulse  of  the  moment,  at  intervals  of  relaxation 
from  such  domestic  employments,  as  the  circum 
stances  of  the  writer,  and  her  parents,  rendered 
indispensable.  Most  of  them  were  written  when 
she  was  ^very  young,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
two  or  three  short  pieces,  the  whole,  before  she 
had  attained  the  age  of  twenty-three  years. 


ENGLISH 


INTRODUCTION. 


A  DAMP  and  dewy  wreath  that  grew 

Upon  the  breast  of  Spring, 
A  harp  whose  tones  are  faint  and  few, 

With  trembling  hand  I  bring. 

The  clang  of  war,  the  trumpet's  roar., 

May  drown  the  feeble  note, 
And  down  to  Lethe' 's  silent  shore, 

The  scattered  wreath  may  float. 

But  He,  who  taught  the  flowers  to  spring 
From  waste  neglected  ground, 

And  gave  the  silent  harp  a  siring 
Of  wild  and  nameless  sound  ; 

*l 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

Commands  my  spirit  not  to  trust 

Her  happiness  with  these : 
A  bloom  that  moulders  back  to  dust, 

A.  music  soon  to  cease. 

But  seek  those  flowers  unstained  by  time, 

To  constant  virtue  given, 
And  for  that  harp  of  tone  sublime, 

Wliich  seraphs  wake  in  Heaven. 


CONTENTS. 


A.  Page. 

ADDRESS  to  the  Deity,  -                 54 

Anniversary  of  the  death   of  a  venerable 

friend,                            -  35 
Address  to  the  New  Month,        -        -       -47 

Adieu,  -           121 

Anniversary  of  the  death  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 

Hooker,  -  133. 
A  Thought,  134 
Address  from  a  young  Pupil  to  her  com 
panions,  -  151 
Application  of  the  Roman  Precept,  -  225 
Autumnal  Scene,  242 

\  B* 

Birth  Day,  -        146 

Birth  day  of  a  young  Lady  who  had  recent 
ly  lost  her  Mother,  219 

C. 

Contemplation,  -         3 

Conflagration  at  Washington,  -                   31 

Characters  of  Others,       -  -        66 

Composition,  -                   79 

Courage  of  Cesar,  -         129 

Cares  of  Earth, 149 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Careless  Heart,       -  199 

Confidence  of  Alexander,                           -  203 

Creation,       -                                               -  239 

Convention,  246 

D. 

Death  of  an  Invalid,  -  13 
Dove,  -  14 
Death  of  Mr.  Washburn,  -  49 
Desertion  of  the  Muse,  -  -  109 
Deserted  Garden,  -  107 
Destruction  of  the  Inquisition,  -  43 
Deception,  -  -  137 
Departure  of  Mrs.  Nott  with  the  Missiona 
ries,  -  -  140 
Dedication  for  a  Book  of  Poetical  Extracts,  143 
Detached  Thoughts,  -  ...  157 

E. 

Election,                           ....  27 

Excuse,                                             -        -  113 

Evening  Thought,                           -         -  123 

Evening,                                                      .  131 

Equanimity  of  Zeno,       -                  -        -  131 

Evils  of  Haste,       -                           -        -  134 

Exclamation  at  Midnight,       -        -        -  142 

Emblem,       -                           ...  £03 

Evening  Examination,                   -         -  216 

Evening  Reflection,                            -         -  228 

Eclipse  of  the  Moon,       -                 -        -  250 

Evening  Prayer, 264 


CONTENTS.  IX 

F.  Page. 

Filial  Duty,          -  53 

Farewell  to  the  Month,       -  -                       46 
For  the  blank  page  of  a  new  Bible,        -         122 

Friendship,  141 

First  of  September,  -       173 

First  Morning  of  May,  226 

First  Wintry  Morning,  252 

G. 

God  displayed  in  Ms  Works,  ...       4 

Gratitude,       -  19 

Do.  95 

Giving  the  Bible  to  the  Esquimaux,  9 

Government  of  the  Passions,  -                       85 

H. 

Happiness,       -  97 

Hearing  a  Bell  Toll,       -  -      206 

Hymn,  229 

I. 

Indecision,                           -  -       -       91 
Improvement  of  Scipio's  Boast,       -        -       223 

Infant,  -       -       255 

Invocation,  -       -       257 

L. 

Life,       -  23 

Longest  Day,  -       220 

Life, 136 


X  CONTENTS. 

M.  Page. 

Macdonough,  29 

Malta,  39 

Memory,  -                            59 

Montivideo,       -  -       103 

Modesty,  94 

Morning  Thoughts,  -       118 

Morning,       -  ISO 

Moonlight  Scene,  147 

Midnight  Prayer,  206 

Moon  and  Star,       -  -       -        212 

Morning  Prayer,  260 

Midday  Prayer,  263 

N. 

Novel  Reading,  56 

O. 

Our  Country,  24 

On  hearing  a  friend  sing  at  Midnight,     -       190 
On  the  Character  of  a  venerable  Friend,        200 

P. 

Procrastination,       -  6 

Philosopher's  Reproof,  120 

Psalm  CXIX.  -       138 

Psalm  CXIX.      -  175 

Paraphrase  of  Amos,       -  181 

Parting,  -       205 

Pope,       -  213 


CONTENTS.  Xl 

Page. 

P  arting  Friend,       -.  -       217 

P  araphrase  of  Cleopatra's  Advice,                  222 

Q. 

Queen  of  Night,  -       128 

R. 

Richmond  Theatre,  248 

Rain  Bow,  235 

Rising  Moon,  115 
Regard  due  to  the  feelings  of  others,        -       126 

'  Reflection,  133 

Request,  148 

Rose,  179 

Rove  Forever,  -      208 

Rapidity  of  Time,  214 

Reply  of  the  Philosopher,  223 

Do.  224 

S. 

Storm  at  Midnight,  5 

Self  Knowledge,  72 

Sabbath  Morning,  116 

Susceptible  Mind,  18 

Summer  Morning,  127 

Sleeping  Infant,  196 

Solitary  Star,  -       201 

Seclusion  of  Basil,  -                            226 

St.  Clair,  -       251 

T. 

Tribute,         -  -                  1 


Xii  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Tear,  22 

To  a  Friend  in  Affliction,  -  117 

To  a  Young  Lady,  -  124 

Trust  in  the  Almighty,  -  135 

Tolling  of  a  Bell,  139 

To  a  Friend  on  the  first  day  of  the  Year,  140 

Transient  Joy,  -  144 
To  a  Friend  whose  correspondence  had  been 

interrupted,  -  -  193 

To  an  Instructor,  -  209 

Twilight,  -  215 

To  a  Friend  with  Geraniums,  215 
To  a  Friend  on  the  24th  anniversary  of  her 

Marriage,  -  234 

Thoughts  on  Childhood,  -  236 

To  a  Friend,  -  -  241 

V. 

Vain  Pursuits,                                              -  125 

Vanity,  137 

Vanity  of  Life,                            ...  204 

Victory,  231 

Vicissitudes  of  Nature,                  -        -  258 

W. 

Weeping  may  endure  for  a  Night,  154 

Y. 

Youth,  99 

Young  Friend  Sleeping.        -        -        -  221 


MORAL  PIECES. 


A  TRIBUTE. 


THERE  rose  a  plant  from  shades  obscure, 

Of  weak  and  feeble  stem, 
Its  shrinking  leaves  were  closely  curPd, 

And  pale  its  infant  gem. 

And  yet,  a  benefactress  kind 

The  lonely  stranger  ey'd — 
And  lov'd,  and  watch'd  the  humble  plant, 

Which  few  had  lov'd  beside. 

She  hid  it  from  the  chilling  storms, 

For  storms  its  bloom  opprcst, 
And  when  the  wintry  blast  arose, 

She  warm'd  it  in  her  breast. 


With  glance  of  tearful  joy,  she  viewed 

Its  promts' d  verdure  rise ; 
And  oft  its  drooping  buds  she  rais'd, 

To  point  them  to  the  skies. 

But  as  she  cherish'd  it,  a  hand 

Remov'd  her  hence  away  ; 
And  sick'ning  on  her  lowly  tomb 

The  broken  flow'ret  lay. 

It  rose — to  seek  the  ray  serene, 

The  star  of  mercy  threw  ; 
It  rose  on  life's  eventful  scene. 

To  feel  and  tremble  too. 

Yet  some  have  fenc'd  it  from  the  blast, 

And  from  the  wintry  air, 
And  deign'd — tho'  undeserv'd  their  smile, 

To  shelter  it  with  care. 

Yes — they  have  chcer'd  it : — they  have  sought 

To  see  its  branches  grow ; 
And  have  not  scorn'd  it, — though  its  stalk 

AVas  unadorn'd  and  low. 

And  if  the  fragrance  of  the  skies 

Should  to  its  buds  be  given, 
That  fragrance  shall  to  these  arise, 

To  virtue,  and  to  heaven. 


CONTEMPLATION. 


OFT,  when  the  morning  draws  her  dewy  veil, 
Or  twilight  slumbers  on  the  shrouded  dale, 
Or  moon  beams  tremble  thro*  the  whisp* ring  trees,, 
Or  flout  on  clouds  before  the  western  breeze, 
Or  evening,  in  her  starry  mantle  bright, 
Precedes  the  slow  majestic  train  of  night ; 
In  that  still  hour  the  mind  excursive  roves, 
A  heavenly  voice  the  listening  spirit  moves. 
Then  light  wing'd  forms  appear  with  brow  serene, 
And  tempt  the  soul  from  this  terrestrial  scene. 
Her  pow'rs  no  more  can  present  objects  move, 
And  cold  is  earthly  care,  and  earthly  love  ; 
Memory  hangs  pausing  o'er  the  unstain'd  page, 
The  prostrate  passions  all  renounce  their  rage, 
Fear  shrinks  no  more,  and*  wrath  forgets  to  frown, 
And  fluttering  fancy  shuts  her  pinions  down  ; 
The  roving  thoughts  restrain  their  wild  pursuit, 
Ev'n  crested  vanity  sits  meek  and  mute, 
And  sceptred  reason,  bowing  on  her  throne, 
Yields  to  a  Pow'r  acknowledged,  though  unknown, 
The  world  allures — but  clouds  her  glories  blot  j 
The  world  may  call ;  the  spirit  hears  her  not. 
A  still,  small  voice  arrests  th*  expanding  soul, 
The  full,  strong  tides  of  inspiration  roll, 


A  viewless  harp  responds — soft  tones  arise, 
And  quick  within  an  answering  harp  replies  5 
!No  more  the  vague  and  wild  ideas  float, 
Charm'd  into  order  by  that  blended  note  ; 
But  waking  genius  strives,  with  fondest  care, 
To  woo  the  magic  music  from  the  air , 
The  strong,  unmeasured  minstrelsey  to  bind, 
In  harmony  by  mortal  pow'rs  confm'd. 


GOD  DISPLAYED  IN  HIS  WORKS. 


WHO  gave  thee  clothes  to  shield  thy  shrinking 

form  ? 

Who  gave  thee  shelter  from  the  wintry  storm  ? 
Who  gave  the  senseless  beasts  to  be  thy  food  ? 
Spread  for  thy  use  the  pure  and  limpid  flood  ? 
Gave  the  quick  ear  to  hear, — the  mind  to  know, 
The  eye  to  sparkle,  and  the  blood  to  flow  ? 
Who  gave  the  day  of  health — the  night  of  rest, 
Joy  at  thy  call,  and  comfort  in  thy  breast  ? 
Who  deals  with  kindest  care  thy  chequer' d  lot  I 
Whose  arm  sustains  thee  tho'  thoa  see'st  it  not  ? 


Whose  watchful  eye  observes  thy  secret  ways  t 
Who  writes  the  record  of  thy  fleeting  days  ? 

Ask  of  the  stream  that  rolls  in  torrents  hy  ; 
Ask  of  the  stars  that  light  the  darken'd  sky  ; 
Or  of  the  fields  array'd  in  garments  fair  $ 
Or  of  the  birds  that  warble  on  the  air ; 
Or  of  the  mountain  lilies  wet  w  ith  dew  ; 
Or  of  the  brutes,  and  they  will  tell  thee  who. 
Then  lift  thine  eye  to  that  unsullied  throne, 
And  raise  thy  heart  to  Him — thy  God  alone. 


THE  STORM  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


ROVING  spirit — rushing  blast, 
Whither  dost  thou  speed  so  fast  ? 
Hurling  from  night's  ebon  car, 
The  spear  of  elemental  war? 
Cams't  thou  from  the  secret  cell, 
Where  the  prison'd  whirlwinds  dwell  ? 
Hast  thou  seen  the  awful  court, 
Where  the  armed  thunders  sport  ? 
Whore  the  deafning  tempest  sings, 
Where  the  lightning  whets  its  stings  ? 


Didst  thou  there  obtain  thine  how 

Of  wild  and  temporary  pow'r  ? 

Gain  the  strength  that  wraps  thy  breast  ? 

Win  the  cloud  that  forms  thy  crest  ? 

Beg  to  wield  the  mighty  scourge, 

To  stir  the  main — and  lash  the  surge, 

And  wake  the  waves  whose  white  heads  rest 

Lightly  on  old  Ocean's  breast  ? 

Speed'st  thou  now  to  rouse  the  gale, 
That  rends  the  white  and  shivering  sail  2 
Speed'st  thou  now  to  break  the  sleep, 
Of  those  that  ride  the  foaming  deep  ? 
To  shriek  like  ghosts  to  those  that  roam, 
"  Thou  ne'er  shalt  view  thy  distant  home.'* 

Then  go,  thou  angry  tempest — go, 
Speed  thee  on  thy  task  of  woe, 
Traverse  earth  from  pole  to  pole, 
Crush  the  form — but  save  the  soul* 


PROCRASTINATION. 

'*  LIVE  well  to  day" — a  spirit  cries, 
To  day  be  good — to  day  be  wise  ; 


But  something  inward  seems  to  tell, 
Another  day  will  do  as  well. 

"  Now  is  the  time — the  accepted  time,'-* 
Speaks  audibly  a  page  sublime  ; 
Another  creed  is  heard  to  say, 
Wait  till  a  more  convenient  day. 

Enquir'st  thou  which  of  these  is  truth  I 
Which  to  obey — unwary  youth  ? 
Go — ask  of  nature  in  thy  walk. 
The  rose-bud,  dying  on  its  stalk, 
The  fading  grass — the  withering  tree, 
Are  emblems  of  thy  fate  and  thee. 
Ask  of  the  stream  or  torrent  hoarse, 
To  linger  in  its  wonted  course  ; 
Ask  of  the  bird  to  stay  its  flight, 
Bid  the  pale  moon  prolong  her  light, 
And  listen  to  their  answering  tone, 
*'  A  future  day  is  not  our  own." 

And  is  it  thine  ?  Oh,  spurn  the  cheat, 
Resist  the  smooth — the  dire  deceit ; 
Lest,  while  thou  dream'st  of  long  delay, 
Thine  hour  of  action  pass  away, 
Thy  prospects  fade — thy  joys  be  o'er, 
Thy  time  of  hope  return  no  more. 

Ask  of  the  Roman — pale  with  fear, 
While  judgment  thunder' d  iu  his  ear, 


Who  to  the  warning  friend  could  say 
«  I'll  hear  thee  on  a  future  day  ;" 
Ask  him  if  Time  confirmed  his  claim, 
Or  that  good  season  ever  came  ? 

Go,  ask  of  him,  whom  demons  urge 
To  leap  this  dark  world's  dizzy  verge, 
Who  on  his  thorny  pillow  pain'd, 
Sees  no  reprieve  or  pardon  gain'd. 
Oh  !  ask  that  dying  man  the  price 
Of  one  short  hour  of  thoughtless  vice  ; 
What  would  he  pay — what  treasure  give, 
For  one  brief  season  more  to  live, 
One  hour  to  spend  in  anxious  care, 
In  duty,  penitence,  and  prayer ! 

Ask  of  the  grave  j  a  voice  replies — 
'*  No  knowledge,  wisdom,  or  device," 
Beauty,  or  strength  possess  the  gloom 
Where  thou  shalt  find  thy  narrvw  home. 

Delay  no  longer  ;  lest  thy  breath 
Should  quiver  in  the  sigh  of  death  ; 
But  inward  turn  thy  thoughtful  view, 
And  what  thy  spirit  dictates — do. 


THE  GIVING  OF  THE  BIBLE  TO  THE 
ESQUIMAUX. 


ROUND  that  wide  bay  whose  waters  sweep, 
With  slow — sad  current,  to  the  deep, 
Hoarse  hillows  beat  the  rugged  shore, 
Of  cold  and  dismal  Labrador. 

There  as  the  lonely  sailor  keeps 

His  night-watch  o'er  those  awful  deeps, 

Sighs  for  his  long  deserted  home 

And  hails  the  slowly  rising  moon, 

Lo  !  icy  cliffs  of  fearful  size 

Flash  death  before  his  startled  eyes, 

Cleave  his  frail  bark  with  thund'ring  crash, 

As  lightnings  rend  the  lofty  ash. 

His  frantic  shrieks  of  thrilling  pain 

Rouse  from  their  beds  the  helpless  train., 

Who  soon  shall  sleep  nor  wake  again. 

Cold  to  the  raft  their  limbs  congeal, 

Their  icy  hearts  forget  to  feel, 

Dim  close  their  eyes  in  silent  sleep 

On  their  last  couch — the  northern  deep. 

Perchance  upon  the  flinty  beach, 
Their  dry,  unburied  bones  may  bleach, 


10 


Where  desarts  stretch  in  trackless  snow, 
And  broad  lakes  rise  that  never  flow, 
And  rocks  of  frost,  with  frightful  ledge, 
Hang  sparkling  o'er  the  water's  edge. 

There  scarce  the  sun  reluctant  throws 
A  faint  beam  o'er  the  polar  snows  ; 
But  wakes  to  speed  his  glowing  car, 
And  shuns  the  icy  coast  from  far ; 
Pale  float  his  locks  on  frosted  skies, 
As  in  the  waste  the  torch  light  dies. 
There  life's  frail  lamp  with  livid  ray 
Burns  coldly  in  its  cell  of  clay, 
And  lights  a  weak  and  dwindled  race, 
Devoid  of  science,  wit  or  grace. 
For  them  no  spring,  with  gentle  care, 
Paints  the  young  bud  and  scents  the  air ; 
Nor  autumn  bids  the  loaded  stem 
Scatter  its  fruitage  fair  for  them. 
No  storied  page,  or  learned  strife, 
Or  arts  that  lend  delight  to  life, 
Or  lighted  dome,  or  festive  song, 
Shed  lustre  o'er  their  winter  long. 
But  wrapt  in  skins,  by  long  pursuit 
Torn  rudely,  from  the  slaughtcr'd  brute, 
Close  throng'd  in  hidden  vaults  they  rest, 
Within  the  drear  earths'  mouldering  breast. 
Hear  the  wild  storm  above  them  pour, 
Or  sunk  in  sleep  forget  its  roar. 


11 


The  long  dark  night,  with  heavy  sway, 
Hangs  frowning  o'er  their  homes  of  clay  ; 
The  twilight  dim — the  infant  moon, 
The  pale  sad  stars  that  break  the  gloom 
Glance  coldly  on  their  living  tomb. 

Ah  !  what  can  cheer  that  lonely  spot, 
Or  bind  the  sufferer  to  his  lot  ? 
The  hand  that  spread  those  frigid  skies,, 
And  gave  the  polar  star  to  rise, 
The  hand  that  stretch'd  that  frozen  plain, 
,  And  shcw'd  to  man  his  drear  domain, 
Gave,  to  enhance  the  scanty  store, 
An  humble  mind  that  ask'd  no  more. 

And  yet  a  better  boon  than  thig 

In  later  times  he  gave, 
A  warning  voice,  a  call  to  bliss, 

A  hope  beyond  the  grave  ; 
A  page  whose  lustre  shone  to  bless 
The  lone  retreat  of  wretchedness. 

He  reads,  he  weeps,  his  prayers  arise 
To  Him  who  hears  a  sinner's  cries. 
Sounds  soft  as  music  seem  to  roll, 
Strong  light  is  kindled  in  his  soul, 
While  deep  repentance,  earnest  prayer, 
And  grateful  love  are  rising  thnv  : 
And  tears  stand  trembling  in  his  eye 
That  for  his  sins,  Ids  Lord  should  die. 


Now  when  the  storm  more  feebly  blows, 
And  cold  plants  creep  through  wasted  snows. 
When  summer  lifts  her  fleeting  wings, 
"With  ardour  to  his  task  he  springs, 
Blesses  the  hand  that  gilds  the  scene. 
And  kindly  spreads  the  sky  serene. 

Nor  wintry  storms  to  him  are  drear, 
Though  hoarse  they  thunder  in  his  ear, 
Who  in  his  humble  cell  at  rest 
Feels  peace  divine  inspire  his  breast ; 
And  sees  fair  hope  in  roseate  bloom 
Descend  to  share  his  clay  built  room. 

Thus  to  his  silent  grave  he  goes, 
And  meekly  sinks  to  long  repose, 
In  firm  belief  at  last  to  hear 
The  strong  Archangel  rend  the  sphere, 
The  trump  proclaim  the  day  of  doom, 
A  hand  break  up  his  ice-bound  tomb, 
And  bear  him  where  no  pain  shall  come. 
No  winter  shroud  the  scene  with  gloom. 
No  stream  congeal,  no  tempest  rise, 
No  gloomy  cell  or  darken'd  skies, 
No  withering  plant,  no  flinty  soil, 
Or  pining  want,  or  fruitless  toil, 
No  lamp  emit  a  glimmering  ray, 
No  setting  sun  forsake  th<j  day ; 
But  light  shall  beam  before  unknown 
From  Him  who  sits  upon  the  throne, 


13 


And  joy,  and  peace,  and  love  shall  cheer 
The  son  of  wintry  realms  severe, 
Who,  ransonvd  by  his  Saviour's  blood, 
Cleans'd  in  that  fountain's  healing  flood. 
Still  meek  and  uncomplaining  trod, 
And  found  a  mansion  with  his  God. 


DEATH  OF  AN  INVALID. 


HOW  oft,  reviving  Invalid,  would'st  thou, 
When  vernal  plants  diffus'd  their  blossoms  fair, 

Salute  the  opening  scene  with  cheerful  brow, 
And  hail  the  genial  freshness  of  the  air. 

How  oft  would'st  thou  the  passing  hour  beguile, 
Though  health  refus'd  to  flush  thy  cheek  again, 

Oh,  I  shall  miss  thy  custom'd  morning  smile, 
Though  pale  beneath  the  shaft  of  lingering  pain. 

Placid  and  gentle  ev'n  in  life's  decline, 

Though  no  fair  hand  thy  lonely  path  did  strew, 

Well  pleas' d  to  see  the  joys  of  youth,  though  thine, 
Chill'd  by  the  hand  of  age,  were  faint  and  few. 

S 


14 


Buried  and  stiff,  awhile  thy  form  must  rest, 
The  cold,  damp  earth  thy  dream  of  life  must  blot. 

Thus  all,  like  thee,  shall  sink  on  Natures  breast, 
Like  thee  be  mourn'd  a  moment — then  forgot. 


ON  THE  DOVE'S  LEAVING  THE  ARK. 


STILL  did  an  unseen  Being  guide 

The  lonely  vessel  o'er  the  tide, 

And  still,  with  steady  prow,  it  braves 

The  fury  of  the  foaming  waves. 

While  fierce  the  deluge  pours  its  stream, 

The  thunders  roll — the  meteors  gleam, 

When  Ocean's  mighty  cisterns  broke, 

And  earth  like  a  rent  cottage  shook, 

And  slowly  as  its  axle  turn'd, 

The  wat'ry  planet  mov'd  and  mourn'd  ; 

Though  trembling  at  the  tempest's  ire, 

Or  scorching  in  the  lightning's  fire, 

While  holding  in  her  firm  embrace 

The  remnant  of  a  wasted  race, 

Still  o'er  the  waves  the  wandering  ark 

Roam'd  like  some  lone,  deserted  bark. 


15 


But  now  the  storm  has  hush'd  its  ire, 
The  warring  elements  retire  ; 
And  from  his  curtains,  dusk  and  dun 
Look'd  forth,  once  more,  th'  astonish'd  sun. 

What  saw  he  there  ?  Young  Nature's  face 
With  smiles,  and  joy,  and  beauty  fair  ? 

No  !  not  one  feature  could  he  trace 
To  tell  him  life  was  ever  there  ; 

Save  when  that  little  hark  was  seen 

To  shew  him  where  her  pride  had  been. 

But  now  from  that  secure  abode 

A  winged  stranger  went, 
And  from  the  casement  open'd  wide 

A  joyful  flight  she  bent  ; 
High  mounting  seem'd  to  seek  the  sky 
With  forward  breast,  and  sparkling  eye, 
Like  captive  set  at  liberty. 

So  went  the  dove  on  errand  kind, 
To  seek  a  mansion  for  mankind, 
Tho'  scarce  her  meek  eye  dar'd  to  trace 
The  horrors  of  that  dreadful  place. 

The  waves  with  white  and  curling  head 
Swept  above  the  silent  dead, 
The  heaving  billows'  dashing  surge 
Hoarsely  swell'd  the  hollow  dirge  >; 


16 


The  heavy  weight  of  waters  prest 
The  mighty  monarch's  mouldering  breast. 
The  giant  chief,  the  sceptred  hand, 
The  lip  that  pour'd  the  loud  command  ; 
The  blooming  cheek — the  sparkling  eye. 
Now  shrouded  in  the  sea-weed  lie. 

But  still  the  pensive  stranger  spread 
Her  white  wing  o'er  that  Ocean  dread, 
And  oft  her  anxious  eye  she  cast 
Across  that  dark  and  shoreless  waste. 
For  evening  clad  the  skies  in  gloom, 
And  warn'd  her  of  her  distant  home. 
The  stars  that  gcmm'd  the  brow  of  night 
Glanc'd  coldly  on  her  wavering  flight, 
In  tears,  the  moon  with  trembling  gleam 
Withdrew  her  faint  and  faded  beam, 
And  o'er  that  vast  and  silent  grave 
Was  spread  the  dark  and  boundless  wave. 
With  beating  heart,  and  anxious  ear, 
She  strove  some  earthly  sound  to  hear, 
In  vain — no  earthly  sound  was  near. 
It  seem'd  the  world's  eternal  sleep 
Had  settled  o'er  that  gloomy  deep, 
Nor  slightest  breath  her  bosom  cheered. 
Her  own  soft  wings  alone  she  heard. 

But  still  that  fearful  dove  preserv'd, 
With  unabating  care, 


17 

The  olive  leaf — the  type  of  peace 
All  fragrant,  fresh,  and  fail*. 

With  pain  her  weary  wing  she  stretch'd 

Over  the  billows  wide, 
And  oft  her  panting  hosom  dropp'd 

Upon  the  hriny  tide. 

The  image  of  her  ahsent  mate, 

That  cheer'd  her  as  she  strove  with  fate* 

Grew  darker  on  her  eye  $ 
It  seem'd  as  if  she  heard  him  inn u ru . 
For  one  who  never  must  return, 

In  broken  minstrelsey. 

Yet  ere  her  pinions  ceas'd  their  flight, 
Or  clos'd  her  eye  in  endless  night, 
A  hand  the  weary  wanderer  prest 
And  drew  her  to  the  ark  of  rest. 
Oh  !  welcome  to  thy  peaceful  home, 
No  more  o'er  that  wild  waste  to  roam. 

"When  from  this  cell  of  pain  and  woe, 
Like  that  weak  dove  my  soul  shall  go, 
And  trembling  still  her  flight  shall  urge, 
Along  this  dark  world's  doubtful  verge 
O'er  the  cold  flood,  and  foaming  surge, 
Then  may  the  shrinking  stranger  spy 
A  pierc'd  hand  stretching  from  the  sky, 
•3 


18 


Then  hear  a  voice  in  accents  blest, 
"  Return — return  unto  thy  rest," 
Long  prison'd  in  a  wayward  clime, 
Long  wounded  with  the  thorns  of  time ; 
Long  chill'd  by  the  wild  storms  that  pour 
Around  that  dark,  deceitful  shore, 
Enter — where  thorns  shall  wound  and  tempest}* 
rage  no  more. 


THE  SUSCEPTIBLE  MIND. 


HAST  thou  seen  the  Mimosa  within  its  soft  cell, 

All  shrinking  and  suffering  stand, 
And  draw  in  its  tendrils,  and  fold  its  young  leaves, 

From  the  touch  of  the  tenderest  hand  ? 

Hast  thou  seen  the  young  Aspen  that  trembles 
and  sighs, 

On  the  breath  of  the  lingering  wind  ? 
Oh  !  Ihese  are  but  emblems,  imperfect  and  faint* 

Of  the  shrinking  and  sensitive  mind. 


19 


GRATITUDE. 


USES    WRITTEN    OS    PLANTING    SLIPS    OP    GERANIUM    AND    CON 
STANCY    NEAR    THE    CRAVE    OF   A    VENERABLE   FRIKJ1). 


LITTLE  plant  of  slender  form, 
Fair,  and  shrinking  from  the  storm, 
Lift  thou  here  thine  infant  head, 
Bloom  in  this  uncultur'd  bed. 
Thou,  of  firmer  spirit  too, 
Stronger  texture,  deeper  hue, 
Dreading  not  the  winds  that  cast 
Cold  snows  o'er  the  frozen  waste, 
Rise,  and  shield  it  from  the  blast. 

Shrink  not  from  the  awful  shade 
Where  the  bones  of  men  are  laid  ; 
Short  like  thine  their  transient  date, 
Keen  has  been  the  scythe  of  fate. 
Forth  like  plants  in  glory  drest 
They  came  upon  the  green  earth's  breast, 
Sent  forth  their  roots  to  reach  the  stream, 
Their  buds  to  meet  the  rising  beam, 
They  drank  the  morning's  balmy  breath, 
And  sunk  at  eve  in  withering  death. 


Rest  here,  meek  plants,  for  few  intrude 

To  trouble  this  deep  solitude  ; 

But  should  the  giddy  footstep  tread 

Upon  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 

Still  let  the  hand  of  rashness  spare 

These  little  plants  of  love  to  tear, 

Since  fond  affection  with  a  tear, 

Has  plac'd  them  for  an  offering  here. 

Adorn  the  grave  of  her  who  sleeps 

Unconscious,  while  remembrance  weeps, 

Though  ever,  ever  did  she  feel, 

And  mourn  those  pangs  she  could  not  heal. 

Sev'n  times  the  sun  with  swift  career, 
Has  mark'd  the  circle  of  the  year, 
Since  first  she  prest  her  lowly  bier  ; 
And  sev'n  times,  sorrowing  have  I  come, 
Alone,  and  wandering  through  the  gloom, 
To  pour  my  lays  upon  her  tomb  : 
And  I  have  sigh'd  to  see  her  bed 
With  brambles,  and  with  thorns  o'erspread, 

For  surely  round  her  place  of  rest, 
I  should  not  let  the  coarse  weed  twine, 

Who  so  the  couch  of  pain  has  blest, 

The  path  of  want  so  freely  drest, 

And  scatter'd  such  perfumes  on  mine. 

It  is  not  meet  that  she  should  be 

Fogotten  or  unblest  by  me. 


*1 


Ye  plants,  that  in  your  hallow'd  beds, 
Like  strangers,  lift  your  trembling  heads, 
Drink  the  pure  dew  that  evening  sheds, 
And  meet  the  morning's  earliest  ray, 
And  catch  the  sun-beams  as  they  play  ; 
And  when  your  buds  are  moist  with  rain, 
Oh  shed  those  drops  in  tears  again  ; 
And  if  the  blast  that  sweeps  the  heath, 
Too  rudely  o'er  your  leaves  should  breathe, 
Then  sigh  for  her  ;  and  when  you  bloom 
Scatter  your  fragrance  on  her  tomb. 

But  should  you,  smit  with  terror,  cast 

Your  infant  foliage  on  the  blast, 

Or  faint  beneath  the  vertic  heat, 

Or  shrink  when  wintry  tempests  beat, 

There  is  a  plant  of  constant  bloom, 

And  it  shall  deck  this  lowly  tomb, 

Not  blanch'd  with  frost,  or  drown'd  with  rain. 

Or  by  the  breath  of  winter  slain  ; 

Or  by  the  sweeping  gale  annoy'd, 

Or  by  the  giddy  hand  destroyed, 

But  every  morn  its  buds  renew'd, 

Are  by  the  drops  of  evening  dew'd» 

This  is  the  plant  of  Gratitude. 


THE  TEAR. 

-4 
WHEN  gentle  pity  imoves  the  breast, 

And  claims  for  others'  woes  the  sigh, 
Or  mild  commiseration  leads 

To  kinder  deeds  of  charity, 
Or  the  quick,  feeling  heart  laments 

The  woes  of  those  it  holds  most  dear, 
How  graceful  on  the  cheek  is  seen, 

The  pure  and  sympathetic  tear.  *» 

* 
Or  when  the  page  of  life  is  dark, 

And  fled  is  every  earthly  trust, 
When  no  kind  comforter  is  near, 

And  the  sad  soul  is  in  the  dust, 
Or  when  the  bursting  heart  laments 

O'er  lost  affection's  silent  bier  ; 
At  once  to  mark  and  sooth  the  grief 

There  flows  the  sorrow-starting  tear. 

There  is  indeed  a  grief  that  scorns 

The  channel  of  a  watery  eye, 
But  then  it  breaks  the  thread  of  life, 

Or  heats  the  brain  to  agony. 
And  Oh  !  preserve  the  friends  I  love, 

From  feeling  such  a  pang  severe, 
And  give  them  in  their  hour  of  woe 

The  secret  solace  of  a  tear,     , 


23 

.... 
Among  the  boasted  joys  of  youth, 

Fair  friendship's  form  has  met  my  view, 
And  fondly  I  retun'd  her  smile, 

And  still  believ'd  her  promise  true  : 
Yet  I  have  felt,  but  ask  me  not, 

What  thus  has  chang'd  my  prospect  drew, 
And  what  has  taught  me  so  to  prize 

The  treasure  of  a  silent  tear.  X. 


LIFE. 


LIFE  is  like  a  painted  dream, 
Like  the  rapid  summer  stream, 
Like  the  flashing  meteor's  ray, 
Like  the  shortest  winter's  day, 
Like  the  fitful  breeze  that  sighs, 
Like  the  wavering  flame  that  dies, 
Darting — dazzling  on  the  eye, 
Fading  in  Eternity. 


'*£*** 

OUR  COUNTRY. 


REF1ECTIONS    ON    THE    MOUSING    OF    THE    ANJflTKHSAHT    OF    01DB 

IMIEPLNDKIfCK,    JVLT  4,    1814. 

HENCE — ye  rude  sounds,  that  wake  me  from  my 

sleep, 

And  fright  away  my  dreams,  peaceful  and  pure. 
I  shudder  at  the  cannon's  deafning  roar, 
The  martial  echo,  and  the  shout  of  joy 
Where  joy  is  not.     For  say — can  joy  be  there 
Where  honour  and  the  blissful  time  of  peace 
Are  parted  names  ?  And  you,  ye  peaceful  bells, 
That  call  the  meek  soul  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
Why  with  your  hallow'd  voices  will  ye  swell 
This  morning  tumult  ?  Oh,  that  ye  would  leave 
Me  to  my  slumbers  ;  better  'twere  to  dream 
Of  weariness  and  woe,  to  scale  the  cliff 
Snow  crown'd  and  dizzy,  see  the  foe  approach, 
And  when  you  spring  to  motion  find  the  limbs 
Stiff — and  the  tongue  enchain'd  ;  or  dare  the  flood 
Upon  some  broken  bridge — Ah  !  better  far 
To  suffer  for  an  hour,  and  rise  in  peace, 
Than  to  muse  waking  on  disastrous  war 
And  glory  lost.     To  wake,  alas,  and  think 
That  honour  once  was  ours,  and  find  it  not, 
Is  but  to  wake  to  pain    To  see  the  wounds 


Our  bleeding  country  bears,  and  then  to  find 
No  balm  in  Gilead — no  physician  there, 
Is  more  than  torture.     Hence  !  away,  ye  sounds 
Of  revelry  and  mirth;  your  tones  are  harsh, 
Your  melody  discordant ;  for  the  heart 
Responds  not  to  them.     Ye,  that  joy  so  much, 
Look  to  the  heights  of  Quecnston  ;  see  the  plains 
Where  bleach  the  bones  of  valour  ;  hear  the  voice 
Of  treachery  false-hearted  ;  hear  the  tones 
Of  jarring  counsels ;  hear  the  widow's  wail ! 
Look  where  the  troubled  skies  are  red,  with  light 
Of  flaming  villages — and  meteors  wild 
Glare  o'er  the  darken'd  concave ! 

"Who  are  these, 

That  from  their  cold  and  humid  beds  arise  ? 
The  chiefs  of  other  days.  They  fought,  they  bled, 
When  war  was  righteous,  and  they  slept  in  peace. 
Dark  on  their  brows,  a  frown  indignant  sits, 
And  hollow  voices  on  the  midnight  blast 
Tell  of  disgrace  and  death. — But  do  you  say 
These  are  the  visions  of  a  fearful  mind  ? 
And  you  are  still  for  war  ?  Then  sound  the  charge, 
Urge  on  the  combat — bid  the  battle  rage — 
The  victim  bleed — the  lonely  orphan  mourn. 
If  deeds  like  these  delight  you,  take  your  fill, 
And  shout,  and  triumph,  in  the  groans  of  pain. 
Since  war  you  love,  then  arm  you  for  the  fight, 
Bind  on  the  shield,  and  grasp  the  sword,  and  throw 


A  stronger  fence  around  the  endanger'd  home 
Of  those  you  love.     And  since  for  war  you  call, 
Prepare  for  war  ;  and  train  your  infant  sons 
To  deeds  of  daring  ;  let  no  voice  of  peace 
Or  mercy  reach  them,  lest  it  enervate 
Souls  given  to  war  ;  but  let  the  tale  of  blood 
Sooth  them  to  slumber,  and  the  trumpet's  clang 
Break  up  their  cradle  dream.     Since  war  you  will, 
Then  arm  you  for  the  deeds  and  woes  of  war ; 
Stand  firm  and  stedfast ;  for  your  Country  looks 
That  those  who  urge  her  on  so  mad  a  course, 
Should  not  desert  her  in  her  day  of  need. 

But  let  the  Christian  place  a  stronger  trust 
7'*  Him  the  God  of  Might,  who  sits  serene 
Ruling  the  tumults  of  this  jarring  world, 
And  marking  for  himself  the  righteous  soul, 
Who,  whether  prison'd  in  a  cell  of  pain, 
Or  driven  to  fields  of  blood,  or  tost  on  waves 
Dark  and  tempestuous,  at  length  shall  rise 
With  rapture  to  that  calm  and  pure  abode, 
Where  war,  and  woe,  and  error  cannot  come. 


ELECTION. 


0S    THE    MEETING    OF    THE    FREEME.V    TO    ELECT   THEIIl    REPRT.- 
SENTATIVES,    SEPT.  19tll,  1814. 


I  SEEM  to  hear  a  distant  voice 
Thus  feebly  and  imploring  say, 

*•'  My  sons—supporters  of  my  laws, 
Arouse  ye  at  my  call  to  day.w 

Is  this  my  Country  ?  She  whose  tone 
Was  once  so  strong,  so  bold,  so  just  $ 

Now  like  a  captive  sad  and  lone, 
Why  sighs  she  faintly  from  the  dust  ? 

Ask  not :  I  cannot  answer  why ; 

Turn  from  me,  I  would  seek  to  mourn 
But  cast  not  thine  indignant  eye 

On  yonder  banner  stain'd  and  torn. 

Its  hue  was  once  like  mountain  snows, 
Which  no  rude  foot  had  ever  prest ; 

And  like  the  azure  tint  that  glows, 
When  summer  suns  the  skies  invest. 


faded,  dark,  and  foul  with  stains, 
Defac'd  with  blood,  and  soil'd  with  clay, 
A  remnant  round  the  staff  remains, 
Oh  !  save  it,  ere  -'tis  rent  away. 

And  ask  not  why  that  sword  is  dyed 

In  carnage  reeking  to  the  hilt  ? 
The  stains  are  dark  that  mark  its  side, 

But  redden  witli  the  hue  of  guilt, 

Yet  Oh  !  the  land  where  saints  have  pray'd^ 

And  holy  men,  and  heroes  trod, 
Though  for  a  season  dark  with  shade, 

Is  not  forsaken  of  its  God. 

I  trust  some  beam  of  hope  will  rise, 
To  cheer  this  dim  and  troubled  spot ; 

Some  star  of  mercy  light  the  skies, 
Though  now  its  lustre  glimmers  not. 

Then  if  one  plant  of  peace  be  left, 
One  stream  that  still  with  freedom  runs. 

One  branch  not  yet  of  bloom  bereft, 
Oh,  save  it  for  your  infant  sons. 

Like  diamond  bo  the  shield  you  wear, 
Which  no  rash  stain  of  blood  shall  dim  ; 

Lift  to  your  God  the  eye  of  prayer, 
And  firmly  fix  your  trust  in  Him. 


ON  THE  CHARACTER  OF  COMMODORE 
MACDONOUGH. 


THE  scene  of  death  is  past ;  the  cannon's  roar 
Dies  in  faint  echoes  on  the  distant  wave. 
The  Christian  and  the  hero  stands  alone 
Encircled  hy  the  slain.     No  flush  of  joy, 
Or  ray  of  triumph  gilds  his  thoughtful  brow ; 
For  though  his  heart  ascends  in  grateful  praise 
To  Him  who  heard  his  prayer,  it  sighs  with  pain,, 
Lamenting  o'er  the  woe  his  hand  has  wrought. 
That  bosom,  which  amidst  the  battle's  rage, 
Was  calm  and  tranquil,  feels  the  life-blood  creep 
Chill  through  its  channels,  and  that  manly  cheek 
Which  kept  its  hue  unblanch'd,  when  shrieks  of 

death 

And  agony  arose,  is  pale,  and  sad, 
And  wet  with  bitter  tears  for  brethren  lost. 
To  them  he  turns  his  eye,  but  meets  no  glance 
Of  answering  friendship.     On  the  deck  they  slecn 
Pale,  ghastly,  silent :  while  the  purple  stream 
Flows  slowly  ebbing,  from  their  bosoms  cold. 
One  short  hour  since,  he  saw  them  full  of  life, 
And  strength,  and  courage ;  now  the  northern 

blast 

Sighs  as  it  passes  o'er  them — whispering  Iow3 
«  Behold  the  end  of  man  !" 
*4 


X or  yet  for  friends  alone,  the  victor  sigf  is. 
The  noble  heart  may  mourn  a  fallen  foe, 
And  do  no  wrong  to  honour ;  may  revere 
His  virtues,  and  lament,  that  cruel  fate 
Bade  those  to  meet  so  stern,  who  would  have  joyM 
To  join  in  friendship's  pure  and  sacred  bands. 

He  fought  not  for  the  vain  applause  of  man, 
To  light  the  flame  of  war  in  distant  lands, 
Or  carry  fire,  and  sword,  and  woe,  and  death, 
Among  the  innocent ;  but  nerv'd  his  arm, 
And  steel'd  his  ardent  heart,  to  meet  the  sword 
Brawn  on  his  native  land,  and  urg'd  to  blood, 
By  provocation  strange,  and  the  blind  wrath 
Of  erring  man.     He  saw  a  martial  host 
Pres£,  with  invading  step,  her  vallies  green, 
Pour  o'er  her  placid  lakes  the  storm  of  war  ; 
Saw  her  smooth  waters  darkened  with  the  shade 
Of  crowding  fleets  ;  he  saw  the  smoke  arise 
In  heavy  volumes,  from  those  splendid  domes, 
Where  legislation  held  her  awful  sway. 
He  felt  her  sad  disgrace,  and  heard  a  voice, 
Deep  tonM  and  piercing,  call  the  brave  to  arms  < 
His  was  the  heart  to  answer,  and  he  rose, 
With  confidence  in  heaven,  and  soul  prepared. 
He  stood  the  shock,  and  from  the  furnace  flame 
C  ame  forth  like  gold.     And  if  this  scene  of  woe 
Is  still  to  last,  may  many  heroes  rise, 
Thus  bright  with  rays,  whose  source  is  from 
within, 


.H 


And  clad  in  virtue's  arms. 

The  tempered  sword,  long  bath'd  in  blood,  may 

break ; 

The  shield  may  be  destroyed  ;  tbe  well  aim'd  dart 
Err  in  its  course  ;  the  warrior's  eye  grow  dim ; 
But  the  firm  soul,  whose  trust  is  plac'd  above, 
Shrinks  not ;  tho'  loud  that  last,  dread  trump 

should  sound, 

Whose  warning  voice  shall  rend  the  solid 
And  give  her  glory  to  the  whelming  flame. 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  AT  WASHINGTON. 


WTHAT  sounds  are  these,  that  on  the  hollow  blast 
Of  startled  midnight  reach  the  listening  ear  ? 
They  seem  like  shouts  of  conquest,  join'd  with 

shrieks 

Of  mad  despair,  and  the  confusion  wild 
Of  those  that  fear  or  fly.     And  see  the  flames 
In  spiry  columns  burst  thro'  wreaths  of  smoke 
Rcdd'uing  the  brow  of  night.     O  scene  of  woe  ! 
That  pile  superb,  whose  lofty  dome  arose 


With  pomp  and  pride,  aspiring  to  the  skies, 

Whose  spacious  halls  once  shone,  with  all  that  art 

Or  wealth  could  give,  to  dazzle  and  adorn, 

A  blazing  pyramid  of  fire  is  seen. 

Now  its  last  ray  illumes  the  glowing  heavens, 

Darts,  sickens,  and  expires.     What  ruthless  hand 

Could  spread  the  flames  of  vengeance,  thus  to  blast, 

Destroy,  and  desolate.     Embers  conceal'd 

Of  hatred  and  disunion,  cherished  long 

By  treachery's  secret  breath,  and  madly  fiVd 

By  the  wild  torch  of  rashness,  sprung  to  life. 

Eternal  Justice  saw,  and  was  incens'd  ; 
And  suffer*  d  them  to  rage  ;  and  lo  !  the  flame 
Has  caught  our  fairest  domes ;  it  burns — it  spreads, 
And  who  shall  quench  it?  Or  with  pow'rless  strain, 
Or  hand  so  weak  as  mine,  shall  dare  to  paint 
The  horrors  of  that  scene  ?  The  costly  pile 
Sinking  in  sheets  of  fire,  and  clouds  of  smoke  ; 
The  haste  of  flight,  the  agony  of  fear  ; 
Pale  apprehension,  shuddering  regret, 
And  misery,  and  tears  ?     Ah  !  who  shall  bear 
These  shameful  tidings,  to  our  distant  foes, 
Nor  shrink  with  anguish  at  his  Country's  wound* 
Who,  to  the  nations  of  the  earth,  shall  tell 
Her  infamy,  who  once  with  noble  front 
Rank'd  high  among  them  ?  Who  of  all  her  sons 
Can  bear  to  gaze  upon  her  eye,  and  say, 
"  Thy  beauty  is  destroy'd,  thy  strength  is  slain,?' 
And  when  in  future  days,  with  downcast  eyes, 


Around  these  blacken'd  walls  they  lingering  stray, 
And  trace  the  mouldering  ruins,  and  exclaim, 
With  pausing  wonder,   "  Tell  us,  why  was  this  I" 
The  burning  blush  will  dye  the  hearer's  cheek, 
Grief  chain  the  tongue  !  Then  let  oblivion's  veil 
In  deepest  folds  forever  shroud  the  scene  ! 
Snatch  the  recording  pen,  from  him  who  seeks 
To  make  memorial  of  his  country's  shame  ; 
From  her  stain'd  annals  rend  the  page  unblest ; 
Break  off  th'  unfinished  lay  ;  bid  memory  sleep, 
Or  hide  her  tablet  from  a  future  age. 

Yet  Oh  !  my  Country  !  Who  can  hide  thy  loss  ? 
Forget  thy  wounds,  or  mitigate  thy  woe  ? 
Around  is  darkness,  and  within  is  pain  ; 
Then  let  us  look  above  !  There  is  a  ray 
That  gleams  from  thence,  an  angel  voice  that  cries,,, 
"  Lift  up  the  eye  of  faith  ;  there  yet  remains 
"  Hope  for  the  righteous  ;  for  the  weary,  rest ; 
"  For  the  oppressor,  vengeance."      Still  there 

reigns 

A  Judge  Supreme,  whom  nothing  can  elude. 
And  though  his  step  is  sometimes  on  the  deeps, 
Shrouded  in  darkness,  all  his  ways  are  peace, 
Are  wisdom,  truth,  and  mercy.     ThoJ  his  throne 
Is  canopied  with  clouds,  yet  the  meek  eye, 
Now  drown' d  in  tears,  and  dim  with  mists  of  time* 
Shall  see,  at  last,  its  base  was  ever  fixM 
On  righteousness,  and  everlasting  love. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEITY. 


1)  THOU,  whose  words  the  mighty  storms  obey, 
The  whirlwinds  ravage,  or  the  whirlwinds  stay, 
At  wrhose  dread  call  the  thunder  springs  to  birth. 
The  strong  winds  rack  the  firm  and  solid  earth, 
And  lightnings  glare,  and  ocean  foams  with  ire, 
And  snow-clad  rocks  burst  forth  with  flames  of 

fire; 

Yet  whose  least  breath  can  hush  the  jarring  strife. 
And  wake  the  severed  atoms  into  life, 
Send  hark  proud  ocean  from  the  trembling  land, 
And  curb  his  power  with  a  frail  bound  of  sand, 
Hush  the  wild  whirlwind — bid  the  thunder  cease, 
And  comfort  nature  with  the  smile  of  peace  ; 
Canst  thou,  who  vast  eternity  dost  span ; 
Not  change  the  heart,  and  turn  the  ways  of  man  ? 

As  the  soft  stream  forsakes  its  winding  course, 
Yet  ever  speeds  to  its  appointed  source, 
So  canst  thou  mould  his  powers,  and  bend  his  will, 
And  fit  him  for  thy  sovereign  purpose  still  ; 
In  thce  I  trust — in  this  firm  hope  rejoice, 
Lift  upward  to  thy  throne  my  grateful  voice. 
Bend  to  my  prayers — thy  needed  strength  im 
part, 


35 


Awake  my  slumbering  powers,  confirm  my  heart, 
Renew  my  laith — restore  my  wonted  rest, 
And  teach  me  what  thy  will  decrees  is  best ; 
On  this  firm  rock,  Oh,  let  my  feet  be  staid, 
Until  they  tread  that  lone  vale  dark  with  shade, 
'Till  my  faint  heart  shall  feel  its  latest  pain, 
And  throb  no  more,  in  this  cold  breast  again, 
'Till  dying  life  to  life  eternal  tend, 
Hope  spring  to  joy,  and  faith  in  vision  end. 


ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF  A  VENERABLE  FRIEND. 


PAST  was  the  day,  and  all  its  varied  scenes 
Had  sunk  to  rest.     Now  came  the  twilight  grey 
With  weary  step  ,•  and  then  the  queen  of  night, 
With  graceful  motion,  and  with  brow  serene, 
Smil'd  on  the  eye.     But  soon  her  faded  cheek 
All  pale  and  alter'd  sunk  behind  the  cloud  : 
Thence  rising  slowly,  with  a  sickly  look 
And  glance  averted,  fled  with  hasty  step 
yfo  hide  her  head  among  the  shades  of  night. 


Now  all  is  gloom  and  darkness.    Emblem  Jit 
Of  human  joys,  that  dazzle  on  the  sight, 
Then  fade,  and  vanish,  and  are  seen  no  more* 

And  yet,  in  such  a  silent  hour  as  this, 

So  calm  and  placid,  the  full  soul  delights 

To  dwell  on  what  is  past,  or  most  of  all 

To  hold  sweet  converse  with  some  absent  friend 

Belov'd,  departed,  and  beheld  no  more. 

To  such  a  friend  my  pensive  spirit  flies, 

It  seeks  her  in  the  tomb.     Worn  with  the  cares 

Of  this  hard  life,  and  weary  with  the  weight 

Of  more  than  fourscore  years,  her  head  reclines 

Upon  the  couch,  which  nature  has  prepar'd 

For  all  her  sons.     White  were  her  scattered  locks 

With  the  cold  snows  of  age,  and  deep  her  brow 

Was  furrow'd  with  the  heavy  touch  of  care, 

Before  these  eyes  had  open'd  on  the  light. 

But  yet  no  boasted  grace,  or  symmetry 

Of  form  or  feature,  not  the  bloom  of  youth, 

Or  blaze  of  beauty,  ever  could  awake 

Within  my  soul  that  pure  and  hallow'd  joy 

So  often  felt  when  gazing  on  that  eye 

Now  clos'd  in  death.    Nor  could  the  boasted 

pomp 

Of  eloquence,  which  seizes  on  the  brain 
Of  mad  enthusiasm,  emulate  the  theme 
So  often  flowing  from  those  aged  lips, 


To  point  the  way  to  heaven.     O  guide  belov'd, 

And  venerated  and  rcver'd  in  life  ! 

But  tliou  art  not ;  and  many  a  year  has  past 

Since  I  beheld  thee,  though  my  heart  retains, 

No  dearer  image  ;  when  that  heart  has  sunk 

Beneath  the  sorrows  of  this  wTaywrard  clime, 

Pierc'd  with  its  thorns,  and  sick'ning  at  its  snares, 

Then  has  thy  spirit,  in  the  placid  light 

Of  memory,  scem'd  to  rise,  and  whisper  peace  $ 

Or  in  the  doubtful  visions  of  the  night 

Mild  gleaming,  bid  the  mourner  not  to  droop. 

'Twas  ever  thus  ;  for  ah  !  thou  wert  a  friend 

When  first  the  journey  of  my  life  began, 

And  to  thy  last  and  agonizing  gasp 

That  friendship  fail'd  not.     Thou  didst  love  to 

sooth, 

And  dry  the  causeless  tear  of  infancy, 
That  dimnvd  an  eye  just  waking  on  the  light ; 
And  thou  would'st  join  amid  the  sports  and  mirth 
Of  giddy  childhood,  bending  low  to  hear 
The  long  recital  of  those  joys,  and  pains, 
That  s\vell  or  sink  the  little  fluttering  heart. 
Small  were  the  woes  which  then  would  force  the 

sigh 

From  the  rent  bosom,  for  the  strength  was  small 
Civ'n  to  support  them.  When  with  heedless  step 
I  first  began  to  tread  the  flowery  maze 
Spread  for  the  foot  of  youth,  how  kind  the  voice. 
That  warn'd  of  snares,  and  dangers,  unperceiv  'd, 
5 


38 


That  taught  to  shun  the  heaten  track  of  vice, 
And  love  the  path  of  duty,  love  the  way 
Of  meekness  and  of  mercy,  not  to  prize 
That  loud  applause  which  captivates  the  ear 
And  cheats  the  heart ;  hut  seek  to  follow  Him, 
Whose  pure  and  spotless  words  will  lead  the  soul 
To  better  mansions,  and  a  better  life. 

These  were  thy  words,  O  meek  and  lowly  saint ! 
"But  thou  art  taken  from  me — thou  art  gone 
Far  from  my  sight,  and  never  must  my  ear 
Receive  the  music  of  thy  voice  again. 

Much  I  could  mourn  that  thou  art  absent  now, 
For  much  I  need  thy  counsel  and  thy  love, 
And  oft  I  find  my  waywrard  footsteps  stray 
From  the  blest  boundary  of  that  narrow  path 
Leading  to  life.     But  yet  an  higher  pow'r, 
A  nobler  principle,  forbids  to  mourn 
That  thou  art  taken  from  me,  since  my  loss- 
Is  thine  eternal  gain  :  for  so  I  trust 
That  in  the  realm  of  joy  thou  art  at  rest. 
Oh,  may  I  meet  thee  in  the  cloudless  light 
Of  that  bright  world,  which  no  unhallow'd  eye 
Or  mortal  passion  ever  shall  pollute. 

Were  we  assur'd  this  glory  would  be  ours, 
How  should  we  bless  the  hour  of  our  release, 
Which  seals  the  lips  in  silence,  dims  the  eye, 


39 


And  lays  the  pale  cheek  in  the  dust  of  death  ; 
Unbinds  the  spirit  struggling  to  be  free, 
And  points  it  homeward  to  its  Father,  God. 


MALTA. 


FAR  Eastward,  where  the  sea,  with  thundering 

tides, 

Sicilian  shores  from  Afric's  soil  divides  ; 
Not  far  from  where  high  Etna  flames  w ith  dread, 
A  little  Island  rears  its  rocky  head. 
Its  broken  cliffs  allure  the  freshening  gales, 
And   flowers    and   fruitage   clothe  the   verdant 

vales  ; 

Mild  breathes  the  air,  as  if  to  wake  delight, 
And  orange  groves  to  soft  repose  invite, 
But  still  the  rocky  coast,  with  firmness  proud, 
Repels  the  dashing  surge,  and  billows  loud. 

Phenician  lords  first  gave  its  natives  law, 
'Till  Greece  with  mightier  sway  aw^ak'd  their 
awe, 


46 


Though  scarce  the  shallow  soil  and  scant  domain 
Could  tempt  the  avarice  of  the  haughty  train. 

Then  Carthaginian  darts  in  wrath  were  hurl'd, 
'Till  Rome's  proud  sceptre  nodded  o'er  the  world  ; 
And  rising  from  her  throne  she  hound  with  car* 
This  little  gem  to  grace  her  flowing  hair. 

But  soon  her  regal  arm  was  hent  and  hroke, 
And  changing  pow'rs  enforc'd  a  changing  yoke, 
Rough  on  her  temples  fell  the  Gothic  rod, 
And  Norman  lords  in  stern  dominion  trod, 
Till  o'er  her  head  an  host  w  as  seen  to  wield 
The  knightly  sword,  and  shake  the  trophied  shield. 
AVhen  later  times  with  wondering  eye  beheld 
High  crested  valour  guard  her  tented  field ; 
While  the  trumps  clanging  sound,  and  thunder 
ing  shocks 

Of  warlike  weapons,  rent  her  vaulted  rocks, 
And  round  her  walls  the  Turkish  crescent  gleam'd, 
And  Turkish  blood  in  ceaseless  torrents  stream'd, 
And  sunk  w  ith  shame  the  faint  besieging  band 
Fled  few,  and  feeble,  to  their  native  land. 

Once  o'er  these  foaming  floods  and  billows  hoar, 
The  tempest's  wing  a  lonely  vessel  bore  ; 
The  mountain  waves  in  awful  fury  rose, 
And  cleaving  gulphs  the  secret  deeps  disclose, 
The  lightning's  pointed  shafts  like  darts  were 
driven. 


41 


And  thunders  rent  the  darken'd  vault  of  heaven  ; 
Loud  shrick'd  the  wild  winds  from  their  view 

less  path, 

And  lash'd  the  restless  surge  to  foaming  wrath. 
'Till  with  a  maniac  force,  the  raging  blast 
The  shatter'd  vessel  'mid  the  breakers  cast. 

Sad,  weary,  faint,  the  unprotected  train 
Trust  their  last  fortunes  to  the  faithless  main  ; 
Raise  their  weak  heads  above  the  billows*  foam, 
And  pine  with  anguish  for  their  distant  home. 

The  natives,  watching  from  their  sea  girt  isle, 
Saw  the  spent  sufferers  at  their  feeble  toil, 
Held  their  bright  torch  above  the  surge's  roar, 
Lent  their  kind  hand  to  aid  them  to  the  shore, 
Gave  a  glad  shelter  from  the  driving  wind, 
And  with  warm  welcome  cheer'  d  the  sinking  mind. 

As  round  the  blaze  their  sea-beat  forms  they 

drew, 

Forth  from  the  flame  a  hissing  viper  flew, 
Quick  to  a  guardless  hand,  his  venom'd  dart 
Shot  that  keen  poison,  which  corrodes  the  heart  : 
Utter'd  the  astonish'd  natives  as  they  view'd, 
••  This  wretched  man  is  stained  with  guiltless 

blood, 
"And  though  he  scap'd  the  doom  the  seas  might 


•«  Yet  righteous  vengeance  suffers  not  to  live." 
*5 


4-2 


With  stern  and  altered  gaze  they  sadly  wait, 
The  fearful  purpose  of  expected  fate  ; 
But  when  they  saw  the  wound  with  venom  fraught, 
No  change — no  horror  in  their  guest  had  wrought, 
"A  God  !  a  God  !"  their  mingled  voices  cried, 
And  thoughts  of  reverence  thro'  their  spirits  glide. 

Ah  simple  train  !  ye  knew  not  that  ye  saw 
A  friend  of  Him  who  vanquished  nature's  law, 
Who  in  his  bright  ascent  still  paus'd  to  say, 
"No  deadly  foe  shall  bar  my  servants'  way  ; 
"  On  scorpions  they  shall  tread,  and  feel  no  pain, 
"  The  sharp  envenom'd  dart  shall  strike  in  vain." 

"Ye  knew  not  that  ye  saw  the  man  whose  woes 
By  him  were  felt  as  joys,  who  deadliest  foes 
Undaunted  met ;  who  "  counted  losses  gain  $" 
Who  neither  danger  fear'd  nor  shrunk  from  pain  ; 
Whom  no   reproach,  or  scourge,  or  threatened 

doom, 

Or  present  woes,  or  vision'd  ills  to  come, 
Or  heighth,  or  depth,  or  peril,  flame,  or  sword, 
Could  sever  from  the  love  and  service  of  his  Lord. 

To  you  was  giv'n  with  pitying  love  to  impart 
Those  courteous   deeds  that  win  the  stranger's 

heart, 

And  though  more  spacious  lands,  perchance,  dis 
play 


43 


A  soil  more  rich,  a  titled  train  more  gay, 
Yet,  lonely  Isle,  thy  praise  is  on  a  page 
That  passes  down  to  time's  remotest  age. 

And  in  thy  soil  made  soft  by  genial  rain, 
An  unseen  hand  has  sown  a  wondrous  grain, 
In  later  times,*  by  guardian  spirits  nurst, 
Tho'  weak  it  springs,  its  verdure  faint  at  first, 
Yet  deep  and  wide  the  growing  root  shall  spread. 
And  high  the  cherish'd  plant  shall  real'  its  head, 
'Till  on  its  boughs  the  birds  of  heaven  shall  rest, 
And  wounded  nations  in  its  fruit  be  blest. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  INQUISI 
TION  AT  GO  A. 


IN  distant  ages,  which  the  rolling  stream 
Of  time  has  wasted  like  a  baseless  dream, 
\Vhile  o'er  the  earth  the  clouds  of  darkness  hung, 

*  Referring  to  the  lute  distribution  of  the  Scriptures  in  that 
Island. 


44 


Forth  from  the  deep  abyss  a  monster  sprung, 
At  first  a  weak  and  withered  wand  he  bore, 
The  mask  of  sanctity  his  features  wore, 
A  holy  zeal  he  prais'd,  menacing  loud, 
And  to  the  holy  church  his  head  he  bow'd, 
Arm'd  with  her  thunders,  as  her  champion  rose, 
Though  leagu'd  in  secret  with  her  mortal  foes, 
And  dark  resolves,  and  deeds  of  fiendish  spite 
Lurk'd  in  his  hollow  bosom  from  the  light ; 
Deep  draughts  of  blood  in  secret  cells  would  drain, 
His  ear,  like  music  lov'd  the  groan  of  pain, 
Forth  to  the  rack  the  tortur'd  form  he  led, 
And  the  fierce  flames  with  guiltless  victims  fed, 
With  bolts,  and  bars,  his  wretched  prey  confin'd, 
And  claim'd  dominion  o'er  the  free-born  mind. 

His  lofty  dome  rose  frowning  on  the  shore, 
Dark  as  his  sins,  and  secret  as  his  pow'r  ; 
When  midnight  wrapt  the  world  in  Stygian  shade. 
The  first  accursed  stone  was  hewn,  and  laid, 
And  in  the  cavern'd  cells  with  malice  fraught, 
Base  cruelty  and  superstition  wrought. 

Mistaken  zeal  the  pondrous  arches  rear'd, 
Paus'd  o'er  her  work,  and  as  she  saw  it  fear'd, 
And  close-veil'd  mystery,  with  finger  slow, 
Plac'd  on  the  massy  gates,  the  seal  of  woe. 
High  on  the  dome,  her  audit  terror  kept, 
And  in  the  cavern'd  cells  pale  misery  wept, 
And  prison'd  virtue  toil'd  with  ceaseless  care. 


To  feed  the  wasting  lamp  of  dim  despair, 
And  helpless  innocence,  with  fainting  breath, 
Fell  weak  and  tortur'd  in  the  arms  of  death. 

Long,  his  dire  arm  the  humhled  nations  sway'd, 
And  sceptred  kings  a  fearful  homage  paid  ; 
Harsh  on  the  neck,  the  yoke  of  bondage  presttf 
The  helt  of  iron  bound  the  throbbing  breast, 
The  smitten  spirit  sunk  to  rise  no  more, 
And  nature  trembled  at  the  load  she  bore. 

But  while  the  monster,  with  infernal  sport, 
Held  the  dark  revels  of  his  blood-stain'd  court, 
A  heavenl  y  ray  with  quick  effulgence  stream'd 
Through  those  drear  cells  where  light  had  never 

beam'd  $ 

He  heard  the  bursting  bars,  the  captives  free, 
The  breaking  chain,  the  shout  of  liberty, 
Saw  thro'  his  grate  a  form  of  heavenly  birth, 
Light  with  soft  step  upon  the  grateful  earth  ; 
In  frantic  rage  his  blood-shot  eyes  he  roll'd, 
His  inward  pangs  his  changing  features  told ; 
His  champions   fled,    his  guards  forsook  their 

place, 

His  mighty  temple  trembled  to  its  base, 
Its  cleaving  arch  received  the  sweeping  blast, 
Its  mouldering  columns  fell  in  ruin  vast, 
Loud  ycll'd  the  fiend,  with  hopeless  fury  fir'd, 
And  as  his  fabric  sunk,  his  pow'r  expir'd. 


46 


Hoarse  moving  thunders  roar'd  a  mighty  knell, 
The  glad  earth  shouted  as  the  prison  fell, 
The  pow'rs  infernal  shriek'd  in  hollow  moan, 
And  their  grim  monarch  trembled  on  his  throne. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  THE  MONTH. 


FAREWELL  !  Farewell !  no  rolling  sim 
To  me  shall  e'er  thy  light  restore, 

And  cheerfully  thou  go'st  to  seek 
Thy  many  sisters  gone  hefore. 

I  would,  that  all  unstain'd  and  fair. 
The  register  that  thou  dost  bear 
Of  me — might  be  ;  but  yet  adieu, 
And  if  I  sigh,  still  be  thou  true. 
For  thou  to  Heaven's  assembled  host, 
Must  utter  what  of  me  thou  know'st. 

Nay— cast  not  back  that  look  of  pain, 
And  echo  not  my  sighs  again  ! 


Thou  gav'st  me  time  much  good  to  do, 
And  health — and  privileges  too, 
And  if  I  fail'd,  still  blameless  thou. 

Thou  brought'st  me  comfort  from  above, 
Sweet  peace,  and  fond  paternal  love, 
No  night  of  pain,  or  day  of  noise, 
But  gentle,  intellectual  joys. 

I  hang  upon  thy  parting  glance, 

And  bind  thy  memory  to  my  heart  j 
Thy  little  life  to  me  was  sweet, 
.     Was  sweet  as  friendship — so  depart. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  NEW  MONTH. 


SUNDAY,  NOTKMBEB  1st,  1812. 


HAIL,  stranger !  thou  art  welcome !  for  I  know 
Thou  cam'st  to  guide  me  on  my  way,  and  haste 
My  journey  to  my  home.  Thro*  paths  unknown 


48 


Dark  with  the  sahle  of  uncertainty, 
Thou  point'st  me,  and  I  follow  undismayed  ; 
For  all  thy  course  is  mark'd  and  rul'd  by  Him 
AYho  cannot  err.     Oh  !  that  his  pow'r  might  make 
Me  active  every  hour,  patient  and  kind, 
Grateful  and  cheerful,  seeking  to  do  good, 
Forgetting  all  the  things  that  lay  behind, 
And  pressing  firmly  onward  in  the  path 
Of  duty  and  of  peace.     O  stranger  fair  ! 
"Who  com'st  to  aid  me  on  this  little  stage 
Of  life's  uncertain  road,  thy  smile  is  soft, 
And  thy  first  deed  is  kind  ;  for  first  thou  shew'st 
To  me  the  brow  of  morn,  gilded  and  bright, 
And  as  I  gaze  thou  whisper'st  in  my  ear 
That  it  is  holy  :  so  thou  guid'st  my  steps 
To  God's  own  temple,  where  the  gathering  crowds 
Resort  to  seek  his  face  and  chant  his  praise. 


49 


LINES, 


On  the  death  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  WASHBVRV,  of  Far- 
mington,  Connecticut,  during  a  storm  at  midnight* 
while  on  his  passage  to  South-Carolina,  for  the 
benefit  of  his  health,  accompunied  by  his  wife. 


THE  southern  gale  awoke,  its  breath  was  mild, 
The  hoary  face  of  mighty  ocean  smil'd  ; 
Silent  he  lay,  and  o'er  his  breast  did  move 
A  little  bark  that  much  he  scem'd  to  love  ; 
He  lent  it  favouring  winds  of  steady  force, 
And  bade  the  zephyrs  waft  it  on  its  course ; 
So  on  its  trackless  way,  it  mov'd  sublime, 
To  bear  the  sick  man  to  a  softer  clime. 
Then  night  came  on  ;  the  humid  vapours  rose? 
And  scarce  a  gale  would  fan  the  dead  repose; 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  cradled  storms  did  rest, 
As  infants  dream  upon  the  mothers  breast. 

But  when  deep  midnight  claim'd  his  drear  do 
main, 

And  darkly  prest  the  sick  man's  couch  of  pain, 
6 


50 


The  prison'd  winds  to  fearful  combat  leap, 

And  rouse  the  wrathful  spirit  of  the  deep, 

The  impatient  storms   arose — their  sleep  was 

past, 

The  thunder  roar'd  a  hoarse  and  dreadful  hlast, 
The  troubled  bark  was  tost  upon  the  wave, 
The  cleaving  billows  shew'd  a  ready  grave, 
The  lightnings  blaz'd  insufferably  bright, 
Forth  rode  a  spirit  on  the  wing  of  night ; 
An  unseen   hand  was  there,  whose  strong  con 
trol, 

Required  in  that  dread  hour  the  sick  man's  soul, 
It  struggled  and  was  gone  !  to  hear  no  more 
The  whirlwinds  sweeping,  and  the  torrents  roar, 
The  rending  skies,  the  loud  and  troubled  deep, 
The  agonizing  friend,  that  w  ak'd  to  weep  ; 
No  more  to  shrink  before  the  tempest's  breath, 
No  more  to  linger  in  the  pangs  of  death  ; 
No  more  !  no  more  !  it  saw  a  purer  sphere, 
Nor  surging  sea — nor  vexing  storms  were  there  ; 
Before  his  eye  a  spotless  region  spread, 
Where  darkness  rested  not— or  doubt  or  dread, 
And  sickness  sigh'd  not  there,   and  mortal  iDs 
were  fled. 
- 


THE  following  productions  were  ad 
dressed  by  the  author  to  a  number  of  young 
Ladies  placed  under  her  carey  and  are  here 
introduced  in  the  form  of  Essays. 


ESSAYS. 


FILIAL  DUTY. 


AS  a  child,  your  first  duty  is  obedience  to  your 
parents  ;  an  obedience  comprehending  love,  sub 
mission,  and  reverence.  To  this  simple  point  are 
all  your  duties  now  confined  ;  but  as  you  advance 
in  life  they  will  become  more  difficult  and  vari 
ed.  Beware  therefore  of  considering  it  of  small 
importance  how  you  conduct  yourselves  towards 
these  parents.  You  are  like  a  traveller  entering 
upon  an  unexplored  country,  and  these  are  your 
guides.  As  your  judgment  is  not  matured  they 
must  also  be  your  counsellors.  You  are  subject 
to  afflictions  and  they  will  always  be  your  com 
forters.  Do  not  imagine  that  you  are  capable  of 
directing  yourselves,  but  laying  aside  all  feel- 
*6 


54 


ings  of  obstinacy  and  self  conceit,  submit  your 
selves  to  their  instructions,  admonitions,  and  re 
straints.  Be  not  however  satisfied  with  sub 
mission  only,  for  gratitude  has  more  extensive, 
claims.  Reflect  upon  the  nature  of  your  obli 
gations  to  those  who  have  borne  cheerfully  with 
all  the  cares,  anxieties,  and  labours,  arising  from 
your  state  of  infancy  and  youth.  They  have 
protected  you  when  helpless,  instructed  you  when 
ignorant,  loved  you  amidst  all  your  errors,  and 
will  continue  to  love  you  even  to  the  close  of  their 
existence.  Favours  like  these  you  have  never 
received  from  any  other  created  being,  therefore 
next  to  your  father  in  heaven,  you  are  bound  to 
love  and  reverence  your  parents.  Be  dutiful 
and  affectionate,  studying  their  wishes  in  all  you 
do.  A  different  course  of  conduct  will  afflict 
those  to  whom  you  are  bound  by  every  tie  of  na 
ture  and  gratitude,  and  lower  you  in  your  own 
opinion.  You  would  not  surely  wound  those 
whose  kindness  to  you  has  been  such  as  you  at 
present  cannot  realize,  or  in  future  ever  repay  ; 
or  fail  in  the  first  duty  of  your  life,  forcing  hope 
to  sigh  at  the  promise  of  your  future  years. 

Those  who  have  been  eminent  for  piety  and 
true  w'isdom,  have  invariably  performed  the  re 
quisitions  of  this  most  interesting  connection.  If 
you  are  anxious  for  their  fame,  be  careful  not  to 


55 


neglect  this  part  of  their  example.  Our  holy 
Saviour,  when  he  reasoned  with  the  Jewish  doc 
tors,  and  astonished  them  by  his  wisdom,  obey 
ed  the  commands  of  his  mother  and  was  subject 
to  his  parents.  It  seems  almost  unnecessary  to 
make  use  of  arguments  to  enforce  a  duty  which 
the  light  of  nature  teaches,  and  which  even  among 
savage  nations  is  often  scrupulously  performed. 
And  yet  experience  is  daily  proving,  that  it  is 
not  enough  to  know  the  path  we  are  to  tread,  \ve 
need  constantly  to  be  reminded  that  we  are  in 
danger  of  deviating  from  it.  Let  us  listen  to  the 
voice  of  Him  who  cannot  err,  proclaiming  to  us 
who  are  children,  "  Honour  thy  father  and  moth 
er."  Yet  because  the  human  heart  is  hard,  and 
the  ear  dull,  unless  softened  and  roused  by  some 
sentiment  of  self  interest,  the  same  voice  adds, 
with  unspeakable  condescension,  "that thy  days 
may  be  long  upon  the  land  which  the  Lord  thy 
God  giveth  thee."  Let  this  encouragement,  held 
out  to  us  by  infinite  goodness,  stimulate  the  ex 
ertions  of  those  who  have  begun  well,  and  reform 
the  practice  of  those  still  in  error.  Whenever 
we  are  disposed  to  stifle  the  warning  voice  of  du 
ty,  or  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  that  of  Him  who  speak- 
eth  from  above,  let  it  be  remembered  that  at  a 
future  day,  this  folly  will  be  found  to  "bite  as 
the  serpent,  and  stinej  as  the  adder." 


56 


NOVEL  READING. 


READING  is  not  only  a  pleasant  recreation, 
but,  under  proper  regulations,  the  best  employ 
ment  for  our  leisure  hours.  It  becomes  either 
salutary,  or  pernicious,  according  to  the  choice 
we  make  of  our  books,  and  the  time  we  devote  to 
them.  It  is  possible  to  be  dissipated  even  in 
reading  good  books ;  this  however  is  so  seldom 
the  case  with  those  of  our  age,  that  it  is  hardly 
an  evil  to  be  guarded  against.  But  there  is  a 
kind  of  dissipation  to  which  most  young  people 
are  prone,  extremely  injurious  in  a  variety  of 
ways.  That  is  the  reading  of  novels,  without  limit 
as  to  number,  or  discretion  in  the  choice.  This 
is  not  only  a  waste  of  time  which  can  never  be 
recalled,  but  has  the  worst  possible  effects  upon 
the  mind,  by  unfitting  it  for  every  other  kind  of 
intellectual  enjoyment.  Youth  is  the  season  for 
the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  but  whoever  is 
much  devoted  to  a  love  of  works  of  fiction,  will 
find  it  impossible  to  pursue,  with  any  effect,  such 
a  course  of  study,  as  will  enlighten  her  under 
standing,  strengthen  her  mind,  or  amend  her 
heart.  On  the  contrary  she  will  find  her  mind  en 
ervated,  her  wishes  uncertain  and  contradictory, 


57 


her  temper  capricious  and  whimsical,  and  her 
views  of  life  so  incorrect  and  extravagant,  that 
in  the  world  where  it  must  still  be  her  fate  to  live, 
she  sees  nothing  hut  what  is  offensive,  because 
it  is  unlike  the  visionary  world  she  has  formed  in 
her  own  imagination.  It  is  not  from  the  reading 
of  such  works  that  we  can  expect  to  acquire  that 
firmness  of  character,  which  is  necessary  for 
those,  who  hope  to  support,  with  dignity  and  sub 
mission,  the  sorrows,  pains,  and  infirmities,  to 
which  we  are  all  exposed.  The  precepts  found 
in  them  are  not  generally  those  of  wisdom,  pa 
tience,  or  sobriety.  They  are  much  more  apt  to 
excite  vanity,  and  prompt  a  desire  to  imitate 
some  unnatural  or  inconsistent  character.  It 
must  be  acknowledged  that  these  are  not  the 
characteristics  of  all  novels  5  there  are  some, 
where  feeling  and  fancy  are  made  the  vehicles  of 
an  excellent  moral  lesson,  where  at  the  same 
time  that  they  warm  the  imagination,  they  mend 
the  heart,  and  place  the  motives  for  great  and 
good  actions,  in  so  strong  a  point  of  view,  with 
out  extravagant,  or  unreasonable  embellish 
ment,  as  hardly  to  fail  of  leaving  a  good  impres 
sion.  But  works  of  this  description  bear  a  small 
proportion  to  those  which  are  tinctured  with  folly 
and  vanity,  whose  characters,  though  dazzling, 
and  placed  in  various  attractive  attitudes,  are  ut 
terly  unfit  for  imitation,  and  the  admiration  of 


58 


which  can  only  lead  to  mischief.  Their  principal 
attractions  consist  of  endowments  which  imply 
no  real  merit,  and  they  are  usually  under  the  in 
fluence  of  one  single  passion,  wrought  to  such  a 
pitch  of  extravagance,  as  in  real  life  would  he 
completely  ridiculous.  Reading  of  this  kind  is 
too  apt  to  inspire  an  excessive  love  of  admiration, 
and  desire  to  possess  personal  heauty  ;  and  gives 
us  such  false  notions  of  the  world  in  which  we 
are  to  perform  our  part,  that  the  most  respecta 
ble  occupations,  or  duties  of  domestic  life,  become 
irksome  and  tedious. 

We  must  not  expect  to  realize  the  scenes  with 
which  we  are  so  much  delighted.  This  world  is 
a  state  of  trial,  we  must  therefore  expect  pain  ;  it 
is  a  state  of  probation  and  calls  for  the  exercise 
of  virtue ;  of  imperfection,  and  we  must  look  be 
yond  it  for  purity  and  felicity.  The  knowledge 
of  our  own  hearts  is  essential  to  respectability 
and  happiness ;  the  permitting  ourselves  to  in 
dulge  in  the  visionary  scenes  of  romance  is  un 
favourable  to  self  knowledge,  and  commmonly 
perfects  us  in  nothing  but  giddiness  and  self  con" 
ceit.  If  we  have  occasional  recourse  to  works 
of  fancy  for  amusement,  let  us  do  it  but  rarely, 
and  select  those  works  with  care.  At  this  season 
of  our  lives,  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost  in  the  ac 
quirement  of  knowledge  $  a  future  opportunity 


59 


may  never  be  within  our  power,  we  should  there- 
lore  bend  our  attention  to  such  productions  as  will, 
while  they  convey  useful  knowledge,  strengthen 
the  mind,  and  mend  the  heart.  And  above  all, 
let  us  prize  that  volume,  which  points  the  way  to 
truth,  and  which  speaks  of  mansions  reserved 
for  the  faithful  "  incorruptible,  undefilcd,  and 
that  cannot  fade  away." 


MEMORY. 


MEMORY  is  that  retentive  power  of  the 
mind,  by  which  it  preserves  the  ideas  and  im 
pressions  it  has  received.  It  is  of  great  import 
ance  in  all  the  various  employments  and  pro 
fessions  of  mankind,  and  may  be  easily  weakened 
by  neglect,  or  strengthened  at  pleasure.  It  is 
more  under  our  control  than  the  powers  of 
perception,  fancy,  or  imagination,  and  ought 
therefore  to  be  cultivated,  to  counteract  the 
inequality  which  these  must  otherwise  occasion ; 


since  their  possessors  would  have  a  great  variety 
of  original  and  brilliant  ideas,  even  without  ex 
ternal  advantages,  industry,  or  unusual  degrees 
of  application.  It  is  so  much  in  the  power  of 
all,  to  fix  firmly  in  their  minds  what  they  have 
once  admitted  there,  that  some  moral  philoso 
phers  have  asserted  that  memory  is  only  a 
habit  of  Jixed  attention  ;  and  that  though  we 
cannot  always  acquire  what  we  wish,  we  may 
always  rememher  what  we  please.  This  theory 
is  supported  by  instances  of  persons  who  have 
received  from  nature  a  very  weak  memory,  yet 
by  study  and  application  have  strengthened  it  to 
every  useful  and  laudahle  purpose.  Without  this 
faculty,  knowledge  loses  its  value  ;  education 
becomes  ineffectual,  and  it  is  impossible  to  excel 
in  any  literary  department. 

Careful  study,  and  constant  practice,  are  ne 
cessary  to  mature  it  where  it  exists,  and  to 
acquire  it  where  it  does  not ;  and  ideas  are  thus 
arranged,  consolidated,  and  treasured  in  the  se 
cret  recesses  of  the  mind,  to  be  brought  forth 
fof  future  use,  ornament,  or  delight.  That  ready 
recollection  by  which  the  knowledge  possessed 
is  brought  into  immediate  exercise,  as  momen 
tary  exigences  may  require,  is  a  different  de 
partment  of  memory  ;  more  complicated,  and 
less  easily  acquired.  This  requires  judgment  to 


select  wisely  from  the  store-house  of  the  mind, 
and  promptness  to  apply  what  is  selected,  at  the 
moment  when  it  will  produce  the  best  effect. 

As  the  want  of  this  is  most  deeply  realized  in 
society,  so  it  is  most  easily  acquired  by  free  and 
rational  conversation.  Were  the  importance  of 
this  qualification  sufficiently  considered,  it  would 
more  frequently  turn  the  unprofitable  channel  of 
discourse,  and  introduce  subjects  which  might  at 
once  draw  forth,  and  enrich  the  latent  treasures 
of  the  mind.  The  first  act  of  the  memory  com 
pares,  compounds,  and  secures  a  stock  of  ideas  , 
the  other  selects  from  that  stock  whatever  may 
entertain,  convince,  or  instruct  others.  But  if 
this  latter  exercise  of  memory  is  peculiarly  use 
ful  to  those  who  associate  much  with  the  world, 
its  most  pleasing  office  is  to  lead  the  mind 
through  the  cells  which  she  has  stored,  or  the 
gardens  which  she  has  planted,  that  it  may  col 
lect  sweetness,  or  study  wisdom,  or  refresh  it 
self  after  the  cares  and  perplexities  of  life. 

Memory  is  also  a  criterion  of  moral  taste  ; 
For  the  mind  will  cherish  those  ideas  that  are 
most  congenial  to  it  ;  and  if  those  which  fre 
quently  recur  leave  the  deepest  impressions,  it 
follows  that  what  is  most  congenial  to  the  taste, 
we  remember  best.  Thus  we  often  meet  with 


one  who  remembers,  accurately  and  with  cast, 
historical  facts,  ancient  or  modern  ;  another, 
dates  and  eras  ;  a  third,  revolutions  and  con 
spiracies.  There  are  some  who  have  stored  their 
memories  with  biographical  sketches  and  moral 
essays,  or  the  various  departments  of  narrative 
and  poetry  ;  while  others  are  wholly  absorbed 
in  the  passing  events  of  the  day,  the  variations 
of  the  political  atmosphere,  the  fluctuations  of 
society,  pieces  cf  scandal,  fashions,  manners  and 
amusements  ;  unconscious  that  they  are  holding 
up  to  an  attentive  observor,  a  mirror  of  their 
own  intellectual  habits,  and  a  key  to  unlock  the 
secret  cabinet  of  the  mind. 

Memory  is  also  valuable  as  a  source  of  intel 
lectual  delight.  When  affliction  has  embittered 
the  present,  or  age  cast  its  shade  over  the  future, 
it  presents  in  the  past,  a  picture  at  once  consola 
tory  and  alluring.  Thus  we  find  the  aged  inva 
riably  attached  to  the  days  that  are  gone,  more 
ihan  to  those  that  are  passing,  or  to  come  ;  even 
recollected  pain  loses  its  anguish,  and  the  traces 
of  memory  though  broken  and  imperfect  are  de 
lightful  to  the  eye  that  has  grown  dim  to  the  illu 
sions  of  hope.  But  to  us,  my  young  friends,  who 
have  never  felt  affliction  to  disgust  us  with  life, 
or  age  to  paralize  the  ardour  of  fancy,  still  to  us 
memory  opens  a  full  source  of  pleasure. 


63 


Between  the  disputed  pleasures  of  memory  and 
anticipation,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  give  a  derided 
preference  to  the  first.  One  presents  a  vivid  pic 
ture  of  the  future ;  the  other  a  faithful  tran 
script  of  the  past.  The  brilliancy  of  the  first  at 
tracts  for  a  time,  hut  reason  perceives  it  to  be 
drawn  by  the  mutable  pencil  of  fancy,  that  the 
curtain  of  futurity  rests  upon  it,  and  involves  it 
in  darkness.  She  looks  on  the  tablet  of  memory  ; 
its  traces  are  less  glaring,  but  more  perfect ;  they 
dazzle  less,  but  are  not  fictitious.  One  charms 
us  while  we  arc  under  the  sway  of  fancy,  the 
other  while  we  arc  controlled  by  reason  ;  and  we 
are  taught  to  feel  those  to  be  the  highest  pleasures, 
which  are  tasted  by  a  mind  rational  and  serene. 
On  this  part  of  the  subject,  I  will  borrow  the  bean- 
t if  ul  expressions  of  a  poet : 

"  Lighter  than  air,  hope's  summer  visions  fly, 

"  If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky, 

"  If  but  a  beam  of  sober  reason  play, 

"  Lo,  fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  a\vay. 

"  But  can  the  wile  of  art,  the  grasp  of  power, 

"  Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 

"  These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 

"  Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light, 

"  And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rust, 

"  Where  virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest." 

To  you,  my  young  friends,  \vho  are  acquiring 
an  education,  I  cannot  express  the  peculiar  worth 
and  importance  of  memory.  Of  what  use  will  it 


04 


Jbe,  to  listen  to,  or  repeat  sentiments  however 
good,  if  they  pass  away  as  soon  as  they  are  re 
peated  ?  Of  what  advantage  will  it  be  that  you 
acquire  knowledge  with  facility,  if  the  mind  neg 
lects  to  retain  it  ?  If  you  are  sometimes  excuse- 
able  for  not  learning  with  ease,  you  can  never  be 
so,  for  forgetting  what  you  have  learned,  since 
that  depends  upon  your  own  choice,  and  not 
on  the  peculiar  construction  of  the  mind.  Make 
use  of  every  expedient,  therefore,  to  strength 
en  this  important  faculty.  Give  an  undivi 
ded  attention  to  what  you  wish  to  learn,  and 
be  not  satisfied  with  once  repeating  a  lesson^ 
but  meditate  upon  its  contents  until  they  are 
firmly  engraven  on  your  mind.  Accustom  your 
selves  always  to  render  an  account  of  what  you 
read,  either  to  yourself,  or  to  some  other  person. 
Every  night  examine  what  you  have  learned  dur 
ing  the  day ;  compare  it  with  what  you  have 
previously  acquired,  and  he  not  soon  wearied 
with  this  exercise,  for  if  you  really  wish  to 
strengthen  your  memories,  you  will  consider  no 
exertion  too  laborious.  Despise  not  to  receive  a 
lesson  of  wisdom  even  from  inferior  creatures. 
Does  the  ant  when  she  has  carefully  collected 
her  load,  forget  to  deposit  it  in  her  granary  ?  Of 
what  advantage  is  it  to  the  bee,  that  she  selects 
the  most  fragrant  flowers,  that  she  is  skilful  in 
extracting  their  essence,  that  she  bears  a  larger 
load  than  her  companions,  if  when  she  reaches 


65 


her  cell  she  neglects  to  store  her  sweetness  : 
You  are  now  collecting  stores  of  intellectual 
sweetness  for  the  approaching  winter  of  lift', 
it  may  be  a  winter  darkened  with  depression,  in 
firmity,  or  sorrow.  If  you  will  then  wish  for 
internal  resources,  when  the  streams  of  external 
enjoyment  have  become  embittered  ;  if  you  will 
then  need  an  asylum  to  retreat  to,  when  the  tem 
pest  of  trouble  is  beating  without,  prepare  now 
those  resources,  and  furnish  that  asylum.  Con 
quer  now  that  folly  and  levity  which  will  in 
scribe  the  tablet  of  remembrance,  with  traces  not 
grateful  to  the  calm  eye  of  retrospection.  Guard 
against  associations  of  ideas  which  you  would 
blush  to  pronounce,  lest  the  pure  sources  of  re 
collection  should  become  polluted  ;  and  think  no 
exertion  too  great  to  strengthen  a  talent  which 
can  cheer  the  da}  s  of  depression  and  decline. 

But  do  we  not  sometimes  hear  of  the  pains  of 
memory  ?  How  can  a  faculty  like  this  become 
painful  to  its  possessor?  Is  it  because  it  reminds 
us  of  past  losses  and  disappointments  ?  No  !  these 
the  hand  of  time  disarms  of  their  anguish,  and  to 
the  submissive  mind  they  are  converted  into 
blessings.  Is  it  the  recollection  of  injuries  or  un- 
kindness  ?  No !  these  the  Christian  will  repay 
with  forgiveness  and  gentleness,  and  thus  extract 
good  out  of  evil.  Is  it  then  the  remembrance  of 
departed  friends,  who  cherished  and  guided  us, 
*7 


in  the  patiis  of  rectitude  and  piety  I  We  believe 
these  have  gone  to  a  better  country,  and  the  hope 
of  meeting  them  there,  and  the  memory  of  their 
virtues,  console  the  heart  of  the  mourner.  What 
then  can  excite  the  pains  of  memory ;  if  it  is- 
neither  loss,  or  disappointment,  unkindness,  in 
jury,  or  the  death  of  beloved  friends  ?  It  is  the 
recollection  of  time  mispent,  and  of  duty  forsak 
en  !  These  awaken  the  pang  of  memory,  and  turn 
the  eye  with  terror  from  the  past. 

Guard  faithfully,  my  dear  young  friends,  these" 
avenues  of  regret,  and  in  every  situation  and  cir 
cumstance  of  life  you  will  be  happy.  Neither 
age,  sorrow,  or  disappointment  can  destroy  your 
peace  of  mind,  if  you  are  supported  by  the  con 
sciousness  of  having  performed  your  duty.. 


ON  A  JUST  ESTIMATION  OF  THE  CHARAC 
TER  OF  OTHERS. 


HABITUATED  as  we  are  to  the  varied  in 
tercourse  of  society,  it  is  impossible  to  remain 
long  in  the  world*  without  forming  some  csti- 


mate  of  the  characters  that  surround  us.  To 
wards  some  we  feel  attracted,  by  others  repelled  ; 
some,  while  we  scarcely  know  why,  awaken  our 
esteem  ;  and  others,  without  sufficient  reason,  may 
be  thought  of  with  aversion  and  mentioned  with 
disgust.  The  quality  of  our  taste,  the  predom 
inance  of  our  feelings,  or  even  the  casualty  of 
circumstance,  may  produce  associations  of  ideas, 
confirmed  by  habit  into  predilection  or  enmity. 
To  search  for  the  cause  of  these  vary  ing  opinions, 
to  examine  the  foundation  of  these  attachments  and 
prejudices,  and  to  reduce  them  all  to  the  rule  of 
equity  is  the  office  of  the  judgment,  that  most  im 
portant  effort  of  the  reasoning  powers.  In  form 
ing  our  estimate  of  mankind  we  are  too  apt  to  be 
influenced  by  the  distinctions  which  we  perceive 
among  them  ;  and  to  view  with  a  great  degree  of 
deference  the  wealthy,  the  powerful,  and  the  hon 
ourable.  But  the  distinctions  in  society,  which 
are  wisely  appointed  by  Providence  for  the  ulti 
mate  good  of  the  whole,  are  no  criteria  of  indi 
vidual  merit.  The  vicious,  the  unprincipled,  and 
the  cruel,  often  arrive  at  the  summit  of  power, 
and  are  seen  wielding  the  sceptre  of  dominion, 
and  clad  in  the  robe  of  royalty  ;  while  the  virtu 
ous  pass  through  life  in  obscurity,  unheeded  and 
perhaps  unknown.  Wealth,  honour,  and  power 
are  often  acquired  by  injustice,  preserved  with 
pain,  and  lost  in  a  moment ;  so  that  at  once  fluctua 
ting  and  inconclusive,  they  can  give  no  character 


68 


of  their  possessors,  and  furnish  no  solid  basis  for 
the  judgment  to  rest  upon. 

\Ve,  who  are  young,  are  also  too  much  inclined 
to  form  a  sudden  and  favourable  opinion  from  a 
prepossessing  appearance ;  but  beauty  of  form, 
and  regularity  of  feature,  those  external  gifts  of 
nature,  imply  so  little  merit  in  the  wearer,  that 
by  nourishing  vanity  they  frequently  prevent  the 
acquirement  of  knowledge  and  real  excellence  ; 
and  a  pleasing  and  graceful  deportment,  though 
deservedly  an  object  of  admiration,  is  often  assu 
med  to  conceal  depraved  motives,  and  a  malicious 
heart.  If  we,  who  have  seen  little  of  the  world, 
have  never  been  convinced  of  this  by  our  own  ob 
servation,  the  pages  of  history  will  enlighten  us, 
and  even  the  part  that  we  have  lately  read  togeth 
er,  furnishes  repeated  testimony.  Richard  the 
II.  of  England,  under  a  graceful  and  dignified  de 
meanour,  concealed  a  frivolous  mind,  and  a  capri 
cious,  tyrannical  temper  ;  and  Edward  the  IV. 
whose  manners  were  so  prepossessing,  that  he 
was  acknowledged  to  be  the  handsomest  and 
most  accomplished  man  of  his  time,  habituated 
himself  to  every  vice  which  can  flow  from  pride, 
licentiousness,  or  cruelty.  You  will  doubtless 
recollect  from  scripture  history,  that  Absalom, 
whose  hands  were  defiled  with  a  brother's  blood, 
and  whose  base  arts  drove  an  affectionate  father 
from  his  throne,  and  from  his  dwelling,  by  his  af- 


€9 


lability  and  insinuation  "stole  the  hearts  of  the 
men  of  Israel."  If  those  who  possess  real  good- 
ROSS  are  sometimes  too  neglectful  of  its  exterior 
graces,  those  who  are  conscious  of  radical  defects 
usually  study  and  practise,  with  the  greatest  suc 
cess,  the  innumerable  arts  of  insinuation.  The 
exterior  graces,  therefore,  which  attract  and  daz 
zle  the  eye,  imply  no  internal  excellence,  and  offer 
no  solid  foundation  for  esteem  or  confidence.  Nei 
ther  from  the  talents  of  others,  are  we  to  estimate 
their  real  worth  in  the  scale  of  existence.  The 
knowledge  of  what  is  good,  does  not  always  lead 
to  the  practice  of  it ;  and  the  power  of  doing  wrell 
is  sometimes  neglected  or  perverted.  Those 
whom  brilliancy  of  genius  or  solidity  of  learning 
might  have  qualified  to  instruct  and  to  bless  man 
kind,  have  sometimes  exerted  them  only  to  conceal 
or  to  gild  the  deformity  of  vice  ;  to  put  darkness 
instead  of  light  ;  to  untwist  the  strongest  bands  of 
society  ;  to  undermine  the  foundations  of  virtue, 
and  to  wrest  from  their  fellow  men  the  hopes  of 
immortality. 

The  records  of  ambition  and  infidelity  are  dark 
ened  with  such  examples.  Their  steps  have  been 
marked  with  the  tears  of  the  oppressed,  the  mis 
eries  of  the  deluded,  and  the  blood  of  many  vic 
tims.  They  have  passed  through  life  as  terrors 
to  the  living,  and  sunk  among  the  dead  while  none 
lamented  them.  Others,  whom  nature  had  endow- 


ed  with  no  uncommon  qualifications,  have  so  di 
rected  their  powers  to  the  attainment  and  advance 
ment  of  good,  and  so  virtuously  fulfilled  "the 
plain  intent  of  life,"  as  to  be  considered  blessings 
in  society,  ornaments  to  their  own  age,  and  ben 
efactors  to  posterity.  Moderate  abilities,  habit 
ually  exerted  on  the  side  of  virtue,  often  gain  the 
highest  esteem  and  veneration  ;  while  great  tal 
ents  perverted,  enhance  the  future  misery  of  the 
possessor  and  give  melancholy  proof  of  the  de 
pravity  of  man. 

But  perhaps  you  enquire,  how  are  we  to 
judge  of  mankind,  if  neither  their  stations  iu 
society,  their  personal  accomplishments,  or  men 
tal  qualifications,  are  an  allowed  criterion  ?  Es 
timate  them  not  by  the  stations  they  occupy,  but 
the  manner  in  -which  they  fill  those  stations  ;  not 
from  what  they  appear  to  be,  but  what  they 
really  arc  ;  not  from  what  they  are  qualified  to 
know,  but  from  what  they  are  accustomed  to  per 
form.  Esteem  those  who  discharge  the  duties 
of  life  faithfully,  though  their  sphere  be  limited, 
or  their  station  obscure  : 

"  Who  does  the  best  his  circumstance  allows, 
"  Does  well,  acts  nobly  ;  angels  could  no  more," 

Dr.  YOUK». 

Let  the  standard  of  real  goodness  be  your  stand 
ard  of  judgment,  and  not  those  adventitious  dis- 


71 


lindions  which  may  he  possessed  without  virtue^ 
and  lost  without  a  crime.  All  hcings  arc  cither 
good  or  evil,  as  they  imitate  or  oppose  the  Great 
Author  of  all  good  ;  as  they  obey  or  transgress 
those  laws  which  are  given  to  advance  their  own 
greatest  happiness,  and  the  welfare  of  their  fel 
low  creatures.  The  love  of  goodness,  wherever 
implanted,  will  expand  and  display  itself  in  the 
virtues  of  the  heart  and  of  the  life.  Wherever 
these  are  perceived,  though  in  poverty,  depres- 
ion,  or  servitude,  they  are  the  transcript  of  a 
Divine  Original ;  wherever  you  find  them,  though 
humbly  clad,  or  despised  among  men,  revere 
them  ;  they  are  the  genuine,  though  imperfect 
image  of  Him,  who  is  good,  and  who  doeth  good 
unto  all.  Genuine  virtue  does  not  proclaim  its 
own  excellence,  does  not  obtrude  itself  upon  the 
notice  of  others,  does  not  seek  the  applause  of 
men  ;  yet  this  is  the  standard  of  character,  and 
the  true  criterion  of  judgment,  which  neither 
fluctuates,  disappoints,*  or  deceives. 

I  hope,  my  young  friends,  that  you  will  per 
ceive  the  importance  of  justly  appreciating  the 
characters  of  those  who  surround  you  in  the 
world,  and  who,  from  the  duties,  wants,  and  con 
nections  of  society,  may  have  it  in  their  power 
to  influence  your  future  enjoyment.  Never  suffer 
yourselves  to  like  or  dislike  without  sufficient 
cause  $  let  your  attachments  be  sanctioned  by 


reason,  and  your  enmities  mitigated  by  candour  $ 
let  not  the  eye  of  the  mind  be  blinded  by  preju 
dice,  deceived  by  a  gilded  surface,  or  dazzled 
by  the  tinsel  and  trappings  of  time ;  but  reso 
lutely  bear  testimony  in  favour  of  virtue,  how 
ever  neglected,  and  of  goodness,  however  despi 
sed,  till  eventually  the  admiration  of  virtue  in 
others,  may  awaken  you  to  practise  it  yourselves, 
and  the  love  of  goodness  here,  lead  you  to  its 
perfect  reward  hereafter. 


ON  SELF  KNOWLEDGE. 


BY  those  who  have  made  critical  observa 
tions  on  the  powers  and  pursuits  of  man,  it  has 
been  pronounced  his  most  uncommon  acquire 
ment,  to  become  acquainted  with  himself.  We 
may  penetrate  into  the  characters  of  those  who 
surround  us  ;  we  may  learn  the  habits,  disposi 
tions,  and  language  of  foreign  nations  ;  we  may 
become  acquainted  with  all  the  peculiarities  of 
the  globe  that  we  inhabit ;  the  course  of  its  riv- 


crs,  the  height  of  its  mountains,  and  the  treas 
ures  that  are  concealed  in  its  secret  caverns  ; 
we  may  follow  science  as  she  soars  to  the  heav 
ens,  find  the  places  of  the  planets,  call  them  by 
their  names,  compute  their  distances?  magnitude, 
and  periods  of  revolution  ;  yet  if  we  span  the 
whole  circle  of  the  universe,  we  may  return  and 
find  mysteries  in  the  little  empire  within,  to  per 
plex  our  researches,  and  baffle  our  keenest  pene 
tration.  We  have  heard  much  of  the  «  monitor 
within  ;"  but  whoever  attempts  to  trace  her  ac 
tions  to  their  first  spring,  and  her  designs  to  their 
real  source,  will  be  convinced  that  she  has  also 
an  advocate  within.  When  this  advocate  per 
ceives  the  eye  of  the  mind  turned  inward,  she  en 
deavours  to  elude  its  pursuit,  but  if  she  finds  it 
bent  on  resolute  search,  she  casts  obstacles  before 
it,  spreads  a  veil  over  what  it  seeks  to  investi 
gate,  softens  errors  into  virtues,  speaks  of  crimes 
as  inadvertencies,  and  endeavours  to  blind  the 
eye  of  reason  the  judge,  and  to  silence  the  voice 
of  conscience  the  accuser.  This  is  the  natural 
pride  and  vanity  of  the  human  heart ;  it  assumes 
as  many  shapes  as  fancy  can  devise  ;  it  flies  from 
reproof,  and  when  truth  is  painful"  loves  darkness 
better  than  light."  Her  object  is  to  keep  the  soul 
ignorant  of  itself,  to  deceive  it  into  compliance, 
to  flatter  it  into  submission,  till  her  own  empire- 
is  firmly  established,  and  that  bound  in  perpetual 
slavery.  But  both  our  duty  and  happiness  rc- 
8 


74 


quire  that  this  dominion  should  he  hroken,  ami 
the  first  step  towards  it  is  to  think  humbly  of 
ourselves.  We  arc  beings  who  have  received 
much,  and  arc  accountable  for  it  ;  placed  in  a 
state  of  trial,  with  a  law  of  rectitude  before  us, 
to  see  whether  we  will  obey,  or  swerve  from  it  ; 
subject  to  many  afflictions,  liable  to  many  errors, 
beaiing  within  us  much  which  needs  to  be  regula 
ted,  reformed,  or  taken  away,  and  bound  to  an 
eternal  destination  of  happiness  or  misery.  "What 
is  there  in  this  inscription  to  justify  vanity  ?  Eve 
ry  thing  around  excites  us  to  watchfulness  ;  every 
thing  within  to  humility.  AVe  should  esteem  it  a 
great  unhappiness  to  have  a  friend  whose  ueal  sen 
timents  were  concealed  from  us,  and  whose  char 
acter  we  could  not  investigate  ;  how  much  more 
uncomfortable  and  olangerous,  to  remain  ignorant 
ef  our  own.  Self  knowledge  is  not  the  growth 
of  an  hour,  or  matured  by  a  single  experiment, 
but  is  attainable  by  perseverance,  and  amply  re 
wards  its  toil.  It  is  necessary  to  self  govern 
ment  ;  for  we  must  become  acquainted  with  our 
prevailing  errors,  and  their  probable  sources, 
before  we  can  be  successful  in  reforming  them  j 
we  must  understand  the  disease,  before  we  apply 
the  remedy.  The  mind,  from  a  knowledge  of  her 
most  vulnerable  parts,  knows  better  where  to  ap 
ply  her  strongest  guards,  how  to  arouse  her 
slumbering  energies  to  some  difficult  virtue,  and 
how  to  quell  those  mutinous  passions  which  strive 


75 


tor  the  mastery i  till,  like  some  wise  monarch  who 
has  reduced  his  realm  to  submission,  she  at  length 
wields  her  undisputed  sceptre,  and  tranquilly  ex 
ercises  her  hereditary  rights.  Self  knowledge  is 
necessary  to  improvement  ;  hence,  its  great  im 
portance  to  the  young,  whose  business  it  is  to 
improve.  She  who  wishes  to  acquire  knowledge 
must  be  convinced  that  she  possesses  little  ;  and 
if  she  candidly  observes  her  own  deficiencies,  the 
limited  nature  of  her  attainments,  and  the  im 
perfect  use  she  makes  of  those  attainments,  she 
will  feel  inclined  to  that  humble  and  teachable 
disposition  which  is  the  beginning  of  all  wisdom. 
It  is  the  attempt  of  vanity  to  repress  this  convic 
tion,  to  make  the  mind  contented  with  lowr  degrees 
of  knowledge,  to  puff  it  up  with  shcwy  accom 
plishments,  because,  like  all  despotic  governments, 
her  sway  is  built  upon  the  ignorance  and  weak 
ness  of  the  subject. 

Self  knowledge  is  favourable  to  the  virtue  of 
candour.  When  we  perceive  errors  and  imper 
fections  in  others,  this  teaches  us  that  we  are 
chargeable  with  the  same  ourselves  5  and  when 
we  feel  inclined  to  condemn  some  more  visible 
failure,  this  points  us  within  our  own  hearts  to 
the  same  sources  of  frailty,  and  teaches  us  thai 
in  the  same  circumstances  our  own  conduct  might 
have  been  equally  censurable.  This  represses 
<he  spirit  of  scandal  and  detraction,  that  friend 


to  the  misery  of  human  life  ;  this  teaches  us  not 
to  judge  severely,  lest  we  he  judged  ;  and  from 
The  conviction  that  we  ourselves  are  "  compassed 
with  infirmity,"  excites  that  charitable  temper 
which,  to  use  the  inimitable  illustration  of  scrip 
ture,  "beareth  all  tilings,  forgiveth  all  thing's, 
and  thinketh  no  evil." 

It  is  favourable  to  our  own  enjoyment.     Most 
of  the  repinings  and  discontents  of  mankind  arise 
from  their  entertaining  too   high  an  opinion  of 
themselves.     This  leads  them  to  expect  too  much 
attention  from  others,  and  to  be  angry  when  they 
do  not  receive  it ;  to  fancy  slights,  ill  treatment, 
and  partiality,  when  there  is  none  intended  ;  and 
to  be  outrageous  when  they  meet  with  real  inju 
ries.     They  become  the  slaves  of  suspicion  and 
jealousy,  and  their  moments  of  solitude  are  em 
bittered  with  unpleasant  reflections.      But  self 
knowledge  teaches  us  not  to   expect  more  defer 
ence  than  we   really  deserve  ;  not  to  be  envious 
when  others  are  raised  above  us  ;  and  not  to  over 
rate  our  abilities,  and  place  ourselves  in  situa 
tions   where  we  arc  not   qualified  to   perform  a 
good  part.     Thus  it  saves  us  much  repining,  un- 
happiness,  and  disgrace,  leads  us  to  be  grateful 
lor  little  instances  of  kindness,  and  to  be  patient 
when  we  are  injured  and  misrepresented.     For  if 
those  actions,  which  are  "  despised  among  men," 
have  arisen  from  pure  and  disinterested  motives, 


it  teaches  us  to  extract  a  pleasure  from  those  very 
motives,  which  human  applause  could  never  have 
bestowed. 

It  is  necessary  for  our  acceptance  with  heav 
en.  It  excites  humility  ;  and  with  this  we  must 
be  clothed,  before  we  can  hope  for  the  divine  fa 
vour.  If  an  high  opinion  of  our  own  merits 
makes  us  so  disagreeable  and  disgusting  to  our 
fellow  creatures,  how  sinful  must  it  cause  us  to 
appear  in  the  sight  of  One  who  sees  all  our  hidden 
imperfections  ;  whose  eye  pierces  every  disguise 
by  which  we  deceive  others,  and  possibly  delude 
ourselves,  and  in  whose  sight  our  greatest  follies 
and  errors  are  more  excusable  than  our  pride  ! 
The  assurances  of  his  favour  arc  given  only  to 
those  of  an  humble  and  contrite  heart  ;  he  has 
promised  ^to  bring  down  the  "  loftiness  of  man,  to 
scorn  the  scorners,  but  to  give  grace  unto  the 
lowly." 

Self  knowledge  is  favourable  to  the  promotion 
of  piety.  It  has  already  been  said  that  it  is  the  pa 
rent  of  humility  ;  and  without  humility  there  can 
be  no  piety,  either  in  the  sight  of  God  or  man. 
She,  who  cultivates  an  acquaintance  with  herself, 
wrill  perceive  that  the  frequency  of  her  errors  de 
mands  constant  watchfulness,  and  that  her  strong 
est  resolutions  often  betray  their  trust ;  she  will 
feel  the  necessity  of  goodness,  and  her  own  ina- 


bilityto  keep  its  law  perfectly.  A  deep  ieelintc 
of  these  \vants  and  weaknesses,  will  teach  her  the 
necessity  of  divine  assistance,  and  her  dependence 
upon  a  Superior  Being ;  and  will  increase  the 
fervency  of  her  petitions,  that  "what  is  dark  he 
would  illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support.** 

Do  not  suppose,  my  young  friends,  that  a 
knowledge  of  your  own  hearts,  will  be  only  a 
source  of  self  reproach  and  mortification.  If  the 
sight  of  latent  errors  gives  pain  to  your  spirit, 
that  pain  is  salutary,  and  bears  with  it  a  sure  rem 
edy,  the  desire  of  reformation.  But  it  will  not 
always  act  the  part  of  an  accuser,  it  will  some 
times  point  out  to  you  disinterested  motives,  and 
virtuous  actions,  and  present  you  the  exquisite 
reward  of  conscious  rectitude.  Strive  then  to 
gain  a  knowledge  of  your  own  hearts,  and  to  scru 
tinize  carefully  the  actions  of  your  lives. 

"  'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours, 
"  And  ask  them  what  report  they  bore  to  Heaven." 

Dr.  YorxG. 

Erect  a  tribunal  within,  before  which  the  deeds 
of  every  day  shall  pass  in  nightly  review.  Give 
it  power  to  censure  folly,  to  encourage  goodness, 
and  to  search  those  hidden  motives  which  elude 
the  eye  of  man.  You  will  find  yourselves  both 
animated  to  virtue,  and  deterred  from  transgrcs- 


sion  by  the  thought  of  meeting,  in  the  silence  of 
your  apartment,  a  condemning,  or  an  applaud 
ing  judge,  an  image  of  that  tribunal  before 
which  we  must  all  stand  at  the  great  day  of 
scrutiny. 


COMPOSITION. 


ONE  of  the  most  important  brandies  of  a 
regular  education,  is  the  art  of  writing  accurately 
the  thoughts  that  arise  in  our  minds.  This  ex 
ercise  can  scarcely  be  commenced  loo  early,  or 
practised  too  much,  for  it  continually  excites  new 
ideas,  and  aids  the  mind  in  the  progress  of  knowl 
edge.  Its  first  requisite  is  to  acquire  a  habit 
of  reflection  ;  its  next,  to  array  those  i-cflections 
in  a  suitable  garb.  "Without  the  first,  the  most 
ornamented  style  is  weak  and  deficient ;  with 
out  the  last,  the  most  just  and  noble  sentiments 
often  lose  their  effect.  Our  native  tongue,  though 
inferior  to  the  ancient  languages  in  sublimity, 
and  to  some  of  the  modern  ones  in  harmony,  ad 
mits  of  many  degrees  of  refinement,  elegance,  and 


80 


variety.  That  it  well  expresses  force  and  energy 
we  see  in  the  writings  of  Johnson,  Young,  and 
Milton  ;  that  it  can  move  with  ease,  gracefulness, 
and  beauty,  Addison,  Bcattie,  and  Blair  have 
taught  us  j  while  the  innumerable  works  in  the 
historic,  poetical,  and  descriptive  departments 
prove  that  it  is  endowed  with  native  strength, 
and  highly  susceptible  of  ornament.  Even  in 
our  own  country,  we  have  many  writers,  who  un 
derstand  and  exemplify  the  peculiar  refinements 
of  their  native  language.  The  pages  of  Wash 
ington  and  Hamilton  ;  of  Ames,  Fraklin,  and 
Ramsay,  often  exhibit  those  undefmable  touches 
of  simplicity  and  eloquence  which  are  never  at 
tainable  by  ordinary  writers. 

\Vc  have  often  felt,  my  young  friends,  the  fas 
cination  of  sentiments  clothed  with  elegance  and 
sublimity  ;  and  though  we  do  not  ourselves  as 
pire  to  those  high  departments  of  literature,  still 
the  art  of  writing  our  thoughts,  with  accuracy 
and  facility,  is  an  object  worthy  of  our  strict 
attention.  To  assist  in  this  attempt  rhetoricians 
have  classified  the  various  figures  of  speech,  and 
given  rules  for  metaphor,  allegory,  and  person 
ification,  hyperbole,  comparison,  and  apostro- 
phy.  But  these  technical  terms,  and  amplifica 
tions,  may  be  thus  simplified  for  us  females.  To 
think  with  clearness  and  accuracy,  and  to  express 
those  thoughts  concisely,  and  with  that  degree 


81 


of  ornament  which  flows  from  simplicity,  and  pu- 
rily  of  taste.  I  would  particularly  recommend 
in  A  on  the  epistolary  style,  because  it  is  of  easy 
attainment,  and  enters  into  all  the  uses  of  com 
mon  life.  It  may  be  either  sportive  or  sentimen 
tal  ;  descriptive  or  pathetic ;  argumentative  or 
consolatory  ;  it  may  select  its  materials  cither 
from  the  stores  of  memory,  fancy,  or  imagina 
tion  ;  for  it  admits  of  the  most  incalculable  vari 
ety,  and  its  best  ornaments  are  ease  and  simpli 
city.  Most  of  yon  have  felt  how  it  alleviates  the 
pain  of  separation,  and  animates  the  best  feelings 
of  sympathy  and  of  friendship.  The  image  of  an 
absent  acquaintance  excites  such  a  multitude  of 
ideas  and  sentiments,  that  the  judgment  scarcely 
knows  which  to  select,  or  the  pen  which  to  ex 
press,  and  the  mind  realizes  such  pleasure  in  the 
employment  that  it  returns  reluctantly  even  to  the 
delights  of  society.  We  often  gather  from  the 
page  of  a  writer,  a  more  correct  transcript  of  his 
mental  powers,  than  his  conversation  would  have 
afforded  us.  Men  of  the  most  profound  erudi 
tion  have  frequently  dazzled  so  little  in  mixed 
company,  that  from  their  writings  alone  could  be 
estimated  the  solidity  of  their  talents,  and  the  com 
pass  of  their  knowledge.  There  is  often  attend 
ant  on  true  genius,  a  delicacy  which  so  fears  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  another,  a  diffidence  which 
so  distruts  its  own  powers,  that  the  possessor  is 
kept  silent  when  he  might  have  spoken  w  ith  pro- 


priety,  or  blushes  without  cause  for  what  he  has 
tittered.  To  such  a  mind  the  harsh  and  censori 
ous  tempers  which  are  found  in  society  are  a  ter 
ror,  and  it  is  in  solitude  alone  that  the  ideas  are 
freed  from  their  bondage,  and  the  expressions 
from  their  constraint,  and  the  pen  which  aids  the 
progress  of  this 'secluded  delight  is  resigned  reluc 
tantly,  as  a  friend,  that  has  imparted  the  highest 
degree  of  intellectual  enjoyment. 

Among  those  who  have  preferred  writing,  to 
littering  their  thoughts,  we  find  the  example  of 
Virgil,  who  spoke  seldom,  and  with  hesitation, 
and  was  so  unassuming  in  his  manners  that  when 
the  people  thronged  to  see  him  as  he  passed,  he 
would  escape  into  obscure  streets  to  avoid  their 
gaze.  Cowper,  except  before  intimate  friends, 
was  almost  uniformly  silent,  and  Goldsmith,  whose 
WTitings  display  beauty  of  sentiment  and  eleva 
tion  of  language,  wras  in  discourse  trifling  and 
frivolous.  That  accute  and  penetrating  meta 
physician,  the  elder  President  Edwards,  never 
strove  to  display  his  talents  in  conversation,  but 
says  "  as  far  as  I  can  judge  of  my  own  abilities, 
I  think  I  can  write  better  than  I  can  speak." 
The  accomplished  Elizabeth  Smith,  who  in  the 
compass  of  a  short  life  acquired  the  knowledge  of 
ten  different  languages,  w  as  so  far  from  that  lo 
quacity  which  often  marks  superficial  attainments, 
that  it  was  difficult  to  draw  her  into  conversation. 


It  is  in  the  writings  of  these  illustrious  characters 
that  we  find  originality  of  thought,  justice  of  sen 
timent,  and  force  of  reasoning,  occasionally  ele 
vating  our  conceptions,  convincing  our  j  udgments, 
and  softening  our  feelings.  Many  more  exam 
ples  might  be  adduced  of  those  who  prefer  the  ex 
ercise  of  composition  to  that  of  conversation,  and 
who,  in  silently  meditating  upon  some  rational 
subject,  and  in  recording  the  spontaneous  flow  of 
ideas  and  reflections,  have  felt  a  silent  satisfac 
tion,  and  an  enlargement  of  mind,  never  found 
among  the  restraints,  or  the  gaieties  of  society. 
I  hope,  my  dear  girls,  that  each  of  you  will  real 
ize  the  pleasures  of  that  exercise,  which  you  now 
view  as  a  burden,  for  if  it  was  not  of  real  utility, 
I  would  never  recommend  it  to  you.  Often  ac 
custom  yourselves  to  select  some  subject  worthy 
of  your  meditations,  and  write  your  thoughts  as 
they  rise,  striving  by  degrees  to  give  them  form 
and  consistence,  regularity  and  beauty.  It  is  the 
privilege  of  our  nature  to  think  and  to  reason. 
To  her  who  cherishes  good  thoughts,  it  can  never 
be  a  burden  to  express  them  on  paper,  while  she 
is  confident  that  they  will  meet  with  no  ungener 
ous,  criticism.  But  as  you  strive  to  inure  your 
selves  to  this  important  exercise,  be  careful  that 
wrhat  you  produce  is  strictly  your  own;  for 
though  a  similarity  of  sentiment  or  expression 
may  accidentally  occur  between  those  who  con 
sider  the  same  subject  in  the  same  point  of  view, 


yet  to  pass  the  sentences  of  another  as  your  own, 
is  a  practice  to  which  no  good  and  generous  mind 
can  descend.  You  would  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  defrauding  another  of  his  property  ;  is  it  not 
equally  unjust  to  defraud  him  of  his  literary  la 
bours  ?  You  despise  the  dishonesty  of  him  who 
passes  counterfeit  coin  ;  would  you  not  despise 
also  the  dishonesty  of  him  who  should  impress 
his  own  name  upon  the  writings  of  another  ? 
This  artifice  is  easily  detected,  and  like  every 
other  recoils  upon  him  who  practises  it,  by  de 
priving  him  of  all  the  real  improvement  he  might 
derive  from  the  exercise,  and  exposing  him  to  the 
contempt  of  every  judicious  mind. 

But  you,  I  hope,  will  ever  prefer  your  own 
thoughts,  however  rude  and  unpolished,  to  the  bor 
rowed  sentiments  of  another,  from  which  the  eye 
of  penetration  would  turn  away  disgusted,  and  the 
voice  of  conscience  secretly  condemn  the  decep 
tion.  'Think  often  upon  rational  subjects,  and  it 
will  soon  be  easy  and  pleasant  to  express  those 
thoughts.  Pursue  with  perseverance  tbe  appoint 
ed  path  to  knowledge  and  to  virtue  ,•  the  future 
good  will  overbalance  the  present  exertion  j  and 
suffer  me  once  more  to  repeat  my  most  earnest 
wish,  that  each  of  you  may  now  acquire  what 
will  render  you  respectable,  useful,  and  beloved 
throughout  the  untried  scenes  of  your  opening 
journey  ;  and  that  each  of  you  from  the  cares, 


85 


toils  and  variable  pleasures  of  mortality,  may 
enter  where  error,  and  pain,  and  inconsistency 
arc  forever  excluded. 


ON  THE  GOVERNMENT  OF  THK  PASSIONS. 


THERE  are  certain  propensities  and  emotions 
implanted  in  our  nature,  which  arc  discernible  in 
the  early  stages  of  infancy,  and  often  survive  the 
decay  and  debility  of  age.  Their  language  is  3o 
universal  as  to  be  scarcely  modified  by  the  differ 
ent  customs  of  distant  nations  or  remote  ages ; 
so  unequivocal  as  to  be  understood  equally  by  the 
learned  and  ignorant ;  and  so  strong  as  frequently 
to  imprint  indelible  lines  upon  the  countenance. 
These  are  the  passions.  By  their  due  regulation 
they  promote  enjoyment,  or  by  improper  latitude 
embitter  the  cup  of  human  life.  And  as  in  the  ve 
getable  kingdom,  nature  is  said  to  have  distributed 
no  poison  without  its  correspondent  remedy,  so  in 
the  moral  world  there  exist  powers  to  counteract, 
to  restrain,  or  to  conquer  these  latent  principles 
9 


of  action.  The  rules  that  are  friendly  to  the  go\  - 
eminent  of  one  may  apply  with  trifling  variation 
to  all ;  and  the  following  remarks  shall  be  con 
fined  simply  to  the  passion  of  anger.  This  is  a 
mingled  emotion,  and  is  said  to  combine  a  "  sense 
of  injury  with  a  purpose  of  revenge,"  yet  is  se 
condary  to  none  in  the  suddenness  of  its  growth, 
the  firmness  of  its  root,  and  the  violence  of  its 
operations.  It  has  been  known  to  rouse  all  the 
powers  of  the  soul  to  sudden  combat  j  to  rend  the 
firmest  bands  of  amity  and  affection  ;  to  destroy 
in  a  moment  what  the  labour  of  years  had  scarcely 
effected,  and  the  united  efforts  of  ages  could  never 
reinstate.  To  conquer  this  passion  requires  a 
vigorous  and  habitual  exertion  j  for  if  some  are 
less  constitutionally  inclined  to  it,  or  less  expo 
sed  to  the  causes  that  excite  it  than  others  ;  yet 
none  ever  obtained  a  habit  of  constant  sweet 
ness  and  self  command,  without  many  internal 
conflicts,  because  none  are  exempt  from  vexa 
tions,  or  insensible  to  the  risings  of  resentment. 
It  is  not  blameable  to  feel  quickly  or  deeply  ;  but 
it  is  both  blameable  and  weak,  to  suffer  such  feel 
ings  to  disarm  our  reason,  and  raise  a  mutiny  in 
the  soul. 

To  meet,  not  only  the  peculiar  vexations  of 
our  lot,  but  those  more  trifling  provocations 
which  are  often  the  greatest  trials  of  the  temper, 
to  meet  these  not  with  insensibility,  but  with 


87 


•calmness  and  cheerfulness,  is  botli  important  and 
laudable  ;  important,  because  our  duty  and  inter 
est  require  it ;  and  laudable,  because  it  is  obtain 
ed  by  a  victory  over  ourselves.  As  the  power  of 
this  passion  lies  in  the  suddenness  of  its  impulse, 
overpowering  reason,  and  prompting  to  rash 
words,  or  hasty  deeds,  so  its  most  obvious  and 
natural  antidote  is  a  iiabit  of  deliberation.  If 
the  heart,  when  its  first  risings  are  felt,  would 
stay  to  enquire,  why  is  this  tumult  ?  From  whence 
proceeds  this  agitation  ?  If  it  would  then  indulge 
but  a  moment  of  reflection,  the  danger  would  be 
past ;  for  there  are  very  few  instances  in  the  whole 
circuit  of  human  life  that  require  the  aid  of  this 
passion,  and  none  that  justify  its  excess.  Are 
we  offended  at  those  vexatious  incidents  that  we 
cannot  control  ?  Then  we  are  offended  at  Him 
who  does  control  them,  and  in  such  anger  there 
is  wickedness.  Are  we  opposed  in  a  favourite 
argument  ?  Let  us  not  sacrifice  that  composure 
which  might  enable  us  to  retrieve  lost  ground,  or 
defend  what  remains,  nor  cast  away  the  advan 
tages  of  dispassionate  investigation.  Are  we 
provoked  or  injured?  Let  us  not  add  a  more 
formidable  injury  of  our  own,  the  waste  of  spir 
its,  the  disturbance  of  present  enjoyment,  the 
destruction  of  the  calm  temperament  of  the  soul. 

Shall  we,  for  any  vexation,  provocation,  or  in 
jury,  tolerate  within  ourselves  that  baleful  agent 


38 


which  has  so  often  wrought  misery,  sown  discord 
and  disunion,  arrayed  brother  against  brother, 
and  friend  against  friend,  sundered  the  bonds  of 
man's  fellowship  to  man,  desolated  kingdoms, 
and  covered  the  face  of  the  earth  with  blood  ?  It 
is  terrible  in  its  combinations  and  effects,  and 
even  its  lowest  degrees  are  subversive  of  social 
and  individual  happiness.  It  is  peculiarly  repre 
hensible  in  our  sex,  whose  most  necessary  orna 
ment  is  a  spirit  of  meekness,  gentleness,  and  for 
bearance  j  and  so  boisterous  and  turbulent  is 
this  in  its  exercise,  that  it  is  distinctively  termed 
by  some  critics,  "  an  un  feminine  passion."  It 
is  supposed  by  some  that  its  lineaments  give  spirit 
and  dignity  to  the  character  upon  particular  oc 
casions.  But  covet  not  such  a  spirit,  or  such  a 
dignity  as  this.  It  is  an  unamiable  spirit,  a  dig 
nity  that  inspires  no  true  respect ;  and  in  cases 
where  energy  is  requisite,  firmness  and  determin 
ation  will  accomplish  more  than  all  the  violence 
of  passion. 

In  us  who  are  young,  an  irritable,  contentious 
temper  is  deeply  inexcusable ;  for  if  there  ever 
exist  seasons,  situations,  or  causes  that  palliate 
it,  those  palliations  do  not  belong  to  us ;  to 
whom  the  cares  of  maturity,  and  infirmities  of 
age,  arc  unknown ;  whose  spirits  are  unbroken 
by  disappointment ;  whose  path  is  illumined  by 
hope  :  to  wrhose  eyes  the  imagery  of  nature  is 


Si) 


beautiful  and  new ;  and  into  whose  hearts  the 
whole  creation  seems  to  breathe  a  spirit  of  peace, 
harmony,  and  benevolence.  This  is  the  season 
to  be  amiable,  grateful,  and  happy  ;  and  an  as 
cendency  is  most  easily  acquired  over  those  la 
tent  passions  which  by  indulgence  will  "  grow 
with  your  growth,  and  strengthen  with  your 
strength."  Strive  therefore,  to  acquire  that  ha 
bitual  self  command,  which  in  future  life,  if  fu 
ture  life  be  yours,  will  be  often  called  for,  and 
powerfully  exercised.  Let  no  contest  be  declin 
ed  because  it  is  difficult  ;  no  point  conceded  be 
cause  it  is  trivial  ;  for  this  is  a  warfare  where 
victory  ensures  victory,  and  defeat  produces 
defeat. 

Habits  arc  confirmed  by  exercise,  and  strength 
ened  by  reflection  ;  therefore  meditate  frequently 
on  the  advantages  of  that  calm  repose,  which 
arises  from  a  settled  and  peaceful  state  of  the 
mind,  and  endeavour  to  transplant  that  peace  to 
your  owrn  bosoms.  Consider  the  complicated  evils 
of  disordered  passions,  and  resolve  to  range  the 
warring  subjects  under  the  banners  of  reason. 
Think  with  that  forcible  and  pathetic  poet  : 

"  A  soul  immortal,  wasting-  all  its  fires, 
"  Thrown  into  tumult,  raptu  r'cl  or  disturb'cl 
"  At  ought  tliis  world  can  threaten  or  indulge, 
"  Resembles  Ocean  into  tempest  rous'd 
"  To  waft  a  feather,  or  to  drown  a  fly." 


90 


With  such  views   accustom  yourselves  to  vea- 
son  and  to  deliberate,  until  you  have  established, 
upon  a  solid  basis,  the  peace  and   serenity  of  a 
well  regulated  mind.     Let  the  influence  of  living 
and  recorded  examples  lead  you  to  reflection,  res 
olution,  and  correspondent  exertions.     Your  own 
observation  has  doubtless  selected  many  exam 
ples  from  the  pages   of  history,  and  I  will   no 
tice   merely  the  distinguished  Mrs.   Rowe,  who 
throughout  her  whole  life  was  supposed  never  to 
have  uttered  an  illnatured  expression  ;  and  the 
accomplished  Miss  Elizabeth  Smith,  who  moved 
under  the  pressure  of  adversity  with  invariable 
calmness,  sweetness,  and  humility.     It  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  remind  you,  that  in  the  scriptures 
many  of  the  "  prophets  and  apostles  were  exam 
ples  of  suffering  affliction  and  of  patience."     But 
I  particularly  recommend  to  your  study  that  most 
perfect  model,  the  life  of  Him  who  suffered  more 
deeply  than  any  man,  yet  "  spake  as  never  man 
spake  5"  who,  «  when  he  was  reviled,  reviled  not 
again,   and  when  he  suffered,  threatened  not." 
Yet  because  the  most  powerful  examples  some 
times  fail  to  influence  the  conduct,  because  the 
strongest  habits   of  reflection    and    self  control 
have  been  known  to  yield  to  the  momentary  im 
pulse  of  passion,  let  us  follow,  as  the  safest  guide, 
that  religion  which  regulates,  purifies,  and  reno 
vates  the   evil  principles   of  our  natures,  and  in 
as  much  as  it  "  is  pure,  peaceable,  gentle,  easy 


91 


to  be  entreated,  full  of  mercy  and  good  fruits,'* 
is  most  justly  styled  "  the  wisdom  that  comcth 
from  above." 


ON  INDECISION. 


THERE  are  few  constitutional  misfortunes 
that  lead  to  more  unhappiness  and  disgrace  than 
a  wavering,  unsettled  disposition.  In  all  its  as 
pects  of  ambiguous  expression,  variable  opinion, 
and  contradictory  behaviour,  it  is  blameable  and 
hideous.  It  is  always  open  to  censure,  and  is 
often  the  parent  of  deceit,  dissimulation,  and 
treachery.  Let  its  first  appearance  in  infancy 
and  childhood  be  checked  as  the  harbinger  of 
much  sorrow  ;  let  its  earliest  shoots  be  crushed, 
or  they  will  spring  up  to  misery  and  shame.  As 
indecision  of  character  has  often  ruined  the  most 
brilliant  prospects,  so  an  habit  of  dissimulation 
has  darkened  and  defaced  many  minds  which  na 
ture  formed  fair  and  beautiful.  As  we  are  trav 
ellers  in  a  country  where  many  paths  tangled 


and  irregular  present  themselves,  it  is  necessarv 
that  we  should  decide  which  to  follow,  and  what 
object  to  pursue,  lest  while  we  are  choosing, 
and  varying,  and  wandering,  "  life's  poor  play" 
should  end,  and  an  unseen  hand  take  us  away. 
We  must  not  only  have  resolution  to  decide,  hut 
firmness  to  oppose  ;  hecause  evil  solicitations,  and 
flattering  seductions  often  meet  us  in  the  very 
path  of  duty.  Let  it  be  impressed  on  the  mind 
of  youth,  that  nothing  virtuous,  noble,  or  heroic, 
can  be  accomplished  without  resolution,  firmness, 
and  integrity.  What  would  Washington,  the 
deliverer  of  his  country,  have  been  without  these 
virtues  ?  What  would  he  have  been,  had  he  wa 
vered  when  the  whole  weight  of  a  nation's  griev 
ances  was  laid  upon  him  ?  Had  he  shrunk,  when 
the  trumpet  of  war  sounded,  and  a  proud  foe 
approached  to  meet  an  irresolute  and  ill-provid 
ed  band  ;  had  he  sunk,  when  papular  odium  op 
pressed  him  ;  when  hardship  and  weariness  en 
feebled  him,  and  his  native  bowers  invited  him  to 
return  to  ease,  happiness,  and  the  welcome  of 
love  ?  But  he  resolutely  suffered  for  those  whom 
he  loved,  and  who  for  a  time  were  insensible  to 
his  merits  ;  he  endured  to  the  end,  and  now  his 
name  is  immortal.  Firmness  in  declaring  the 
truth  upon  every  proper  occasion  is  the  natural 
and  commendable  fruit  of  integrity.  /Of  this,  our 
great  poet  Milton  was  a  striking  instance.  His 
hatred  of  all  disguise  and  subterfuge  sometimes 


93 


exposed  him  to  danger  in  his  journeys  among 
different  nations,  but  his  firmness  pursued  fear 
lessly  the  path  which  the  rectitude  of  his  heart 
pointed  out.  "  He  had  in  him,"  says  a  judicious 
critic,  "  the  spirit  of  an  old  martyr/'  Our  temp 
tations  to  depart  from  good  resolutions,  and  the 
wavering  temperament  of  our  own  hearts,  teach 
us  the  necessity  of  striving  for  a  habit  of  firm 
ness.  With  calm  deliberation  we  should  examine 
the  position  we  are  to  take,  we  should  be  influen 
ced  by  pure  and  innocent  motives  ;  and  because 
our  strongest  determinations  are  weak,  and  our 
highest  wisdom  fallible,  we  should  seek  by  prayer 
the  counsel  of  God.  Thus  resolving,  we  should 
be  less  subject  to  errors  in  judgment ;  thus  prac 
tising,  we  should  save  ourselves  many  hours  of 
regret,  self-accusation,  and  hopeless  repentance. 
The  scriptures  contain  frequent  reproofs  of  a 
changeable  temper,  and  excitements  to  integrity  : 
"  My  beloved  brethren,  be  ye  stedfast,  immove- 
able,  always  abounding  in  the  work  of  the  Lord, 
for  ye  know  that  your  labour  is  not  in  vain." 


94 


ON  MODESTY. 


MODESTY,  considered  as  proceeding  from 
inward  purity,  and  correct  intentions,  claims  a 
high  rank  among  the  virtues.  Viewed  in  its  ef 
fects  upon  the  manners  and  the  deportment,  it 
ranks  equally  among  the  graces.  It  is  an  essen 
tial  part  of  the  female  character,  and  the  essence 
of  feminine  attraction.  "Without  it,  there  may  he 
regularity  of  features,  but  no  beauty ;  symmetry 
of  form,  but  no  grace ;  brilliancy  of  wit,  but  the 
heart  will  refuse  its  approbation.  A  pleasing 
exterior,  and  elegant  accomplishments  will  fail  to 
delight,  if  they  are  seen  united  with  an  unblush 
ing  front,  and  a  forward  demeanor.  These  in 
the  other  sex  are  displeasing;  in  ours,  insup 
portable. 

But  that  modesty,  which  it  is  desirable  to  pos 
sess,  differs  extremely  from  bashfulness,  and  from 
false  delicacy.  One  is  the  excess  of  diffidence, 
and  may  exist  without  modesty  ;  the  other  is  the 
counterfeit  of  modesty,  always  liable  to  suspi 
cion,  easily  detected,  and  assumed  to  conceal 
radical  defects.  Real  modesty  is  the  offspring 
of  merit  and  of  humility.  It  is  frequently  united 


95 


with  great  abilities,  and  great  acquirements,  but 
it  seeks  not  to  display  its  excellencies  ;  does  not 
court  the  notice  of  others.  It  is  "  not  obvious, 
not  intrusive,"  as  one  fine  writer  has  expressed 
himself;  and  another  has  called  it  "  the  sanctity 
of  manners."  That  these  concise  and  beautiful  de 
lineations  of  modesty  may  apply  to  each  of  you, 
united  with  every  amiable  virtue,  and  laudable 
feminine  attraction,  is  the  sincere  wish  of  your 
fi  iend. 


ON  GRATITUDE. 


GRATITUDE  is  the  emotion  of  a  noble 
and  susceptible  heart  excited  by  acts  of  benevo 
lence,  and  directed  towards  a  benefactor.  It  is 
a  gentle  affection,  softening  and  harmonizing  the 
mind  :  it  is  also  an  active  principle  prompting  to 
the  exercise  of  the  social  virtues,  and  leading  to  a 
mutual  interchange  of  good  offices.  We  may 
learn  to  estimate  it  more  correctly,  by  consider 
ing  the  enormity  of  the  vice  of  ingratitude.  We 


Feel  a  strong  mixture  of  indignation  and  abhor 
rence  towards  a  man  who  has  traduced  his  bene 
factor;  a  friend  who  has  injured  a  friend  ;  or  a 
child  who  has  forsaken  a  parent.  It  is  an  an 
cient  maxim  that  "  if  you  have  called  a  man  un 
grateful,  you  have  said  the  worst,  you  cannot 
add  to  his  baseness.'5  In  all  ages  of  the  world, 
and  even  among  savage  nations,  ingratitude  has 
been  stamped  with  abhorrence. 

Let  us  turn  from  the  idea  :  let  us  contemplate 
the  excellence  and  propriety  of  a  grateful  dispo 
sition,  and  endeavour  to  cherish  it  with  assiduity. 
As  the  first  among  our  earthly  benefactors  we 
must  each  of  us  recognize  our  pare  nts.  They 
have  sustained  us  with  kindness  in  infancy,  in 
childhood,  and  in  youth ;  they  have  supplied  us 
•with  the  means  of  education  ;  they  have  rejoiced 
in  our  joys  ;  in  "  our  afflictions  they  have  been 
afflicted."  Ardent  affection  should  mingle  with 
the  remembrance  of  these  favours  ;  and  our  grat 
itude  should  prompt  us  to  study,  their  wishes, 
and  to  advance  their  happiness  by  becoming  dil 
igent,  useful,  and  amiable. 

Let  us,  also,  recollect  all  who  have  been  in  anj 
degree  our  friends  or  benefactors.  To  think  of 
these  without  affection  is  ingratitude ;  to  feel 
gratitude,  and  not  testify  it,  is  forgetfulness,  a 
forgetf ulness  approaching  to  neglect.  While  we 


thus  look  around  us  in  search  of  these  benefac 
tors,  to  whom  we  owe  the  homage  of  a  grateful 
heart,  can  we  forget  Him  who  is  the  author  of 
all  our  mercies  j  our  guide  in  perplexity  ;  our 
friend  in  misfortune  ;  our  defence  in  danger  ? 
We  cannot  lift  up  our  eyes  without  beholding 
monuments  of  his  kindness,  and  of  his  love.  Let 
us  rejoice  in  his  goodness,  and  offV>r  up  our 
thanks  for  his  guardian  care.  And  may  not  one 
i)f  us  ever  deserve  the  reproof  which  was  once 
addressed  to  an  offender  by  a  prophet  of  the 
Lord  :  "  Him  in  whose  hand  is  thy  breath,  and 
whose  are  all  thy  ways,  hast  thou  not  glorified." 


ON  HAPPINESS, 


WE  are  all  engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  hap* 
piness.  There  are  many  different  means  by 
which  it  is  pursued,  but  all  search  for  the  same 
object  ,*  and  among  those  means  there  are  none 
more  respectable  and  effectual  than  constant  and 
useful  employment.  While  the  hands  are  Indus- 
10 


98 


triously  employed,  or  the  mind  directed  to  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge,  time  passes  pleasantly, 
and  we  enjoy  the  consciousness  of  not  having 
lived  in  vain.  Hahitual,  well-directed  activity 
will  shut  out  the  intrusion  of  melancholy,  and 
close  many  of  the  avenues  by  which  vice  in  the 
hour  of  idleness  may  enter.  Indolence  enfeebles 
both  the  body  and  the  mind  ;  unfits  them  for 
exertion,  and  deprives  us  of  many  rational  pleas 
ures.  TV  e  are  not  formed  for  it ;  and  when  we 
permit  its  influence,  the  whole  animate  and  inan 
imate  creation  appeal's  to  address  us  with  the 
voice  of  reproof.  All  nature  is  active  around 
us.  Day  and  night  succeed  each  other  ;  seasons 
change  ;  the  globe  on  which  we  exist  continually 
revolves.  One  generation  passes  away,  and  on 
its  ruins  another  arises  ;  this  also  is  swept  away 
and  forgotten — "  time  waiteth  for  no  man."  In 
this  world  of  changes,  in  this  scene  of  activity, 
«hall  we  be  as  idle  spectators  ?  Let  us  look 
within  ourselves,  and  observe  the  powers  of  our 
own  minds  ;  active,  intuitive,  capable  of  pro 
gressive  improvement.  "Were  these  powers  en 
trusted  to  us  for  no  valuable  purpose  ;  were  these 
given  to  be  buried  in  the  earth  ?  No  !  they  are  a 
part  of  the  works  of  Him,  who  has  made  nothing 
in  vain.  To  each  of  us  a  part  is  given  to  per 
form  ;  and  since  we  have  now  a  season  for  im 
provement,  let  us,  as  an  incitement  to  activity, 
remember  that  our  life  is  short.  "  What  thine 


99 


hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might ;  for 
there  is  no  wisdom,  knowledge  or  device*  in  the 
grave  whither  thou  goest." 


ON  YOUTH. 


YOUTH  is  the  season  when  habits  are  most 
easily  formed  ;  when  principles  are  most  perma 
nently  established.  That  knowledge  which  ex 
pands  the  soul,  and  enlarges  its  capacity  for  hap* 
piness,  is  more  easily  acquired  at  the  period  of 
youth  ;  because  the  mind  is  then  usually  unbur 
dened  with  care,  and  unsoured  by  disappoint 
ment.  This  is  the  period  for  improvement  of 
every  description  ;  a  period  which,  if  neglected, 
will  occasion  future  disgrace,  and,  if  mispent, 
may  be  lamented,  but  can  never  be  recalled.  It 
has  been  very  elegantly  and  truly  said,  "  If  the 
Spring  put  forth  no  blossoms,  in  Summer  there 
will  be  no  beauty,  and  in  Autumn  no  fruit ;  so  if 
youth  be  trifled  away  in  indolence,  maturity  M  ill 
be  contemptible,  and  old  age  miserable."  Let 


the  spirit  of  this  beautiful  comparison  animate  us 
to  greater  diligence  in  the  pursuit  of  useful  knowl 
edge,  and  to  greater  perseverance  in  vanquishing 
opposing  difficulties.  Recollect  also  that  halms 
are  now  most  easily  formed.  The  youthful  mind, 
where  discordant  passions  are  not  suffered  to 
predominate,  is  like  wax  to  the  soft  impression  of 
the  seal.  Take  care  to  stamp  upon  it  only  the 
images  of  virtue  and  of  piety.  Strive  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  an  amiable  and  an  useful  character. 
Endeavour  to  gain  a  spirit  of  meekness,  of  gen 
tleness,  and  of  sincerity.  Accustom  yourselves 
to  condescension  and  forbearance.  Let  each  of 
you  look  carefully  into  her  own  character,  and 
reform  what  she  there  finds  amiss,  remembering 
that  every  error,  in  which  she  persists,  removes 
her  still  farther  from  the  path  of  duty.  Above 
all,  never  practise  dissimulation*  It  strikes  at 
the  root  of  every  virtue,  and  undermines  the  foun* 
dations  of  all  happiness.  Cultivate  candour  and 
sincerity  ;  they  will  endear  you  to  the  good  and 
to  the  judicious.  Endeavour  to  realize  the  im 
portance  of  establishing  good  habits  ;  of  forsak 
ing  errors  ;  and  of  acquiring  those  sources  of  in 
tellectual  pleasure  which  will  continue  unimpair 
ed,  when  the  enjoyments  of  youth  are  departed, 
and  its  bloom  forever  gone. 

You  have  gained  as  it  were  a  little  eminence  in 
the  journey  of  your  life.    Behind  you  are  the 


101 


scenes  of  infancy  and  childhood,  mingled  and 
blended  together.  Before  you  lies  the  untravel- 
led  path  of  your  existence.  Fancy  perhaps  tells 
you  that  it  will  be  always  clothed  with  flowers, 
and  smiling  with  verdure.  Yet  suffer  not  the 
meteor  of  fancy  to  obscure  the  calm  light  of  rea 
son,  or  prevent  you  from  listening  to  the  voice  of 
experience.  Let  the  advice  of  your  parents  and 
friends  be  dear  to  your  heart ;  this  will  moderate 
the  rashness  of  youth,  and  restrain  its  volatility. 
But  while  you  submit  to  the  judgment  of  others, 
neglect  not  to  read  that  volume,  which  above  all 
others  is  full  of  instruction  and  true  wisdom.  It 
was  given  you  from  heaven,  as  a  counsellor  to 
your  experience,  and  a  guide  to  your  wander 
ings.  Read  it  daily  ;  it  gives  knowledge  and 
discretion  ;  and  if  studied  with  humility  will  lead 
to  truth.  From  these  holy  scriptures  we  receive 
another  argument  to  illustrate  the  importance  of 
the  season  of  youth.  We  have  seen  that  it  is  the 
proper  time  to  acquire  knowledge  and  virtuous 
habits  ;  we  there  hear,  in  the  voice  of  inspiration, 
that  it  is  also  the  time  to  remember  our  Creator. 
We  are  none  of  us  too  young  to  remember  him, 
and  to  love  him.  Let  us  therefore  endeavour  to 
fulfil  his  commands,  to  improve  time  diligently, 
and  to  walk  humbly  before  him.  By  persevering 
in  the  path  of  duty,  we  shall  be  useful  and  happy. 
AVe  are  now  all  of  us  young.  But  a  time  ap 
proaches  when  we  shall  be  young  no  more.  Let 
»  *10 


102 


us  therefore  improve  these  moments  wisely,  that 
when  they  are  past  we  may  reflect  on  them  with 
pleasure.  Those  who  have  spent  their  youth  in 
indolence,  or  vain  amusements,  go  down  to  the 
Tale  of  life  neither  respected  or  beloved.  But 
may  we  assiduously  improve  these  hours,  so  pre 
cious  and  so  transient ;  may  we  strive  to  gain 
whatever  is  useful  and  pious,  and  thus  lay  up  a 
good  foundation  for  the  time  to  come." 


ADDITIONAL  POETICAL  PIECES. 


ON  the  summit  of  a  Mountain,  in  Connecticut,  is  a  small  lake, 
near  which  stands  a  country  house,  four  hundred  feet  above 
a  fine  valley,  which  it  immediately  overlooks.  From  the 
North  end  of  the  water,  the  rocks  rise  abruptly,  an  hundred 
feet  higher,  crowned  by  lofty  forest  trees,  above  whose  bran- 
dies  a  dark,  grey  Tower  is  seen,  resembling  the  rock  on 
which  it  stands,  and  commanding  a  distant  view  into  the 
neighbouring  States.  The  following  is  an  attempt  to  des 
cribe  this  place,  which  bears  the  name  of 

MONTEVIDEO. 


HOW  sweet  upon  the  mountains  brow 
To  stand  and  mark  the  vales  below  ; 
The  peaceful  vales  that  calmly  sleep, 
Conceal'd,  emerging,  silent,  deep  ; 
The  forest  shades  remote  from  noise, 
The  houses  dwindled  into  toys  ; 
Or  turning  from  this  gentle  scene. 
So  mute,  so  distant,  so  serene^ 
* 


104 

Scale  the  steep  cliff,  whose  ample  range 
Gives  to  the  eye  a  holder  change  ; 
The  verdant  fields  which  rivers  lave, 
The  broken  ledge  where  forests  wave, 
The  distant  towns  obscurely  seen, 
The  glittering  spires  that  gem  the  green, 
The  pale,  blue  line  that  meets  the  eye, 
Where  mountains  mingle  with  the  sky, 
The  floating  mist  in  volumes  roll'd, 
That  hovers  round  their  bosoms  cold, 
Woods,  wilds,  and  waters,  scattered  free, 
In  nature's  boldest  majesty. 

Mark,  on  the  mountain's  cultur'd  breast, 
The  mansion-house  in  beauty  drest ; 
Above,  to  brave  the  tempest's  shock, 
The  lonely  tow'r  that  crowns  the  rock ; 
Beneath,  the  lake,  whose  waters  dark 
Divide  before  the  gliding  bark, 
With  snowy  sail,  and  busy  oar, 
Moving  with  music  to  the  shore. 

And  say  while  musing  o'er  the  place, 
Where  art  to  nature  lends  her  grace, 
The  crimes  that  blast  the  fleeting  span 
Of  erring,  suffering,  wandering  man, 
Unfeeling  pride,  and  cold  disdain, 
The  heart  that  wills  another's  pain, 
Pale  envy's  glance,  the  chill  of  fear, 
And  war,  and  discord  come  not  hem 


105 

How  sweet  around  that  silent  lake, 
As  friendship  guides,  your  way  to  take, 
And  cull  the  plants  whose  glowing  heads 
Bend  meekly  o'er  their  native  heds, 
And  own  the  hand  that  paints  the  flow'r, 
That  deals  the  sunshine  and  the  show'r, 
That  hears  the  sparrow  in  its  fall, 
Is  kind,  and  good,  and  just  to  all. 

Or  see  the  sun,  with  morning  heam, 
First  gild  the  tow'r,  the  tree,  the  stream, 
And  moving  to  his  nightly  rest, 
Press  through  the  portal  of  the  west, 
Close  wrapt  within  his  mantle  fold 
Of  glowing  purple  dipp'd  in  gold  ; 
And  then  to  mark  the  queen  of  night, 
Like  some  lone  vestal  pure  and  bright, 
Move  slowly  from  her  silent  nook, 
And  gild  the  scenes  that  he  forsook. 

And  then  that  deep  recess  to  find, 

Where  the  green  houghs  so  close  are  twin'd  5 

For  there  within  that  silent  spot, 

As  all  secluded — all  forgot, 

The  fond  enthusiast  free  may  soar, 

The  sage  be  buried  in  his  lore  ; 

The  poet  muse,  the  idler  sleep, 

The  pensive  mourner  bend  and  weep, 

And  fear  no  eye  or  footstep  rude 

Shall  break  that  holy  solitude. 


106 

Unless  some  viewless  angel  guest, 
"Who  guards  the  spirits  of  the  just, 
Might  seek  among  the  rising  sighs 
To  gather  incense  for  the  skies, 
Or  hover  o'er  that  hallow'd  sod, 
To  raise  the  mortal  thought  to  God. 

O  gentle  scene  !  Whose  transient  sight 
So  \vakes  my  spirit  to  delight, 
Where  kindness,  love,  and  joy  unite  5 
That  tho'  no  words  the  rapture  speak, 
The  tear  must  tremble  on  the  cheek, 
The  lay  of  gratitude  he  given, 
The  prayer  in  secret  speed  to  heaven, 

Here  peace,  long  exil'd  and  opprest, 
By  those  she  came  to  save,  distrest, 
Might  find  repose  from  war's  alarms, 
And  gaze  on  nature's  treasured  charms  ~ 
Beneath  these  mountain  shades  reclin'd, 
Sing  her  sad  dirge  o'er  lost  mankind, 
Or  on  mild  virtue's  tranquil  breast, 
Close  her  tir»d  eye  in  gentle  rest, 
Forget  her  wounds,  her  toil,  her  pain. 
And  droam  of  Paradise  again. 


lor 


ON  VISITING  THE  DESERTED  GARDEN 
OF  FRIENDS  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


THE  morning  smiles  on  these  deserted  walls, 
But  no  bright  lustre  cheers  the  lonely  halls, 
Strong  bolts   and   bars   exclude  th*  accustom'd 

guest, 

By  friendship  lur'd,  by  constant  kindness  blest, 
Who  came  with  gladness,  pleas'd,  prolonged  his 

stay, 
Reluctant  rose,  and  grateful  went  his  way. 

Fair  o'er  those  winding  paths  the  sun-beam  plays, 
But  no  light  footstep  o'er  their  verdure  strays, 
Still  the  strong  pillars  hold  the  mounting  vines, 
Round  the  white  arch  the  clasping  tendril  twines, 
The  garden  smiles,  the  roses  breathe  perfume,* 
The  myrtle  blows,  but  who  shall  watch   their 

bloom  ? 

The  purple  plumbs,  the  untrodden  alley  strew, 
The  peach  lies  blushing  in  the  nightly  dew, 
The  fallen  apple,  in  its  rind  of  gold, 
Shines,  softens,  and  returns  to  kindred  mould^ 

•*  The  monthly  roses  then  in  bloom. 


108 


Save  what  the  roving  boys,  in  truant  hour, 
Snatch  with  rash  hand,  with  eager  haste  devour, 
And  gazing  sadly  on  the  loaded  tree, 
Grieve  that  such  sweets  should  e'er  untasted  he. 

Clos'd  are  those  Winds  thro'   which  I  us'd  to 

trace 

The  smiling  features  of  *****  *'s  face, 
And  when  no  more  I  hear  her  accents  say, 
**  Come  in,  my  friend,  0  yet,  a  moment  stay  5" 
No  sound  is  heard  amid  the  silent  view, 
Save  the  lone  kitten's  long,  despairing  mew, 
My  lay  responsive  joins  the  dismal  strain, 
As  sad  and  slow,  I  wander  back  again. 

Yet  though  your  loss,  dear  friends,  I  daily  mourn; 
And  selfish  sorrow  sometimes  says,  «<  return,'* 
Still  the  rash  word  mature  reflection  blames, 
And  back  the  quick,  unfinished  sentence  claims; 
No  !  stay,  and  view  those  scenes  with  beauty 

fraught, 

Joy  in  the  charms  your  tasteful  care  has  wrought, 
Best  in  the  shades  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Catch  the  pure  spirit  of  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  taste  those  rapturous  hours,  not  often  known, 
\V  hich  nature  sheds  on  virtue's  friends  alone. 

But  when  drear  Autumn's  stern  and  nipping  air 
Shall  strip  the  heights  of  Montevideo  bare, 


109 


And  when  brown  and  shapeless  foliage  flics, 
Smit  by  the  fury  of  the  rending  skies, 
Before  the  hoary  frost,  and  snowy  flake, 
Shall  bind  the  billow  of  the  gentle  lake, 
Oh,  haste,  the  joys  of  other  climes  to  prove, 
Haste,  to  the  genial  warmth  of  social  love  ; 
Draw  the  strong  bolts,  that  bar  the  entrance  free, 
To  the  fair  dome  of  hospitality, 
Cheer  with  reviving  smiles  a  pensive  train, 
And  make  the  eye  of  friendship  bright  again. 


THE  employment  of  transcribing,  and  the  various  con 
cerns  of  a  school,  having  rendered  it  almost  impos 
sible  to  invent  or  arrange  any  thing  new,  gave  rise 
to  the  following  effusion. 


THE  DESERTION  OF  THE  MUSE. 


'TWAS  night !  but  by  an  airy  form. 

My  eye  was  waking  kept, 
Which  gliding  near  me,  seem'd  to  seek 

The  pillow  where  I  slept. 
II 


110 


She  strove  to  frown,  but  still  her  brow 

Was  innocent  and  mild  ; 
And  though  her  words  were  somewhat  stern, 

Their  tones  were  sweet  and  wild. 

•«  Cast  not,"  she  said,  "  a  stranger's  glance  ; 

Not  thus  wre  us'd  to  greet, 
We  know  each  other  well,  although, 

Of  late  we  seldom  meet. 

I  saw  you,  when  a  child  you  sat, 

And  ponder'd  o'er  the  fire  ; 
And  deign'd  to  stoop  that  you  might  s,ee, 

And  try  to  reach  my  lyre. 

You  prest  its  strings  with  so  much  joy, 

And  such  a  smile  serene, 
I  fondly  hop'd  you  soon  would  learn, 

WThat  gratitude  might  mean. 

Amid  your  light  domestic  toils, 

I  rov'd  with  footstep  free, 
And  oft  you  laid  your  needle  down, 

To  take  the  pen  from  me. 

When  lonely,  pausing  o'er  your  book, 

You  walk'd  at  close  of  day, 
Well  pleas'd  to  trace  my  dawning  smile, 

You  threw  that  page  away. 


Ill 

I  met  you  in  my  mountain  dress, 

And  sandals  wet  with  dew, 
All  unadorn'd,  and  yet  I  thought 

That  I  was  fair  to  you. 

My  lyre  was  often  out  of  tune, 
Its  tones  were  rude  and  small, 

Yet  were  they  e'er  so  weak  or  rough* 
You  gladly  heard  them  all. 

But  now  how  chang'd  !  for  when  I  smile. 
And  bring  my  sweetest  rhyme, 

You  coldly  hid  me  *  go  my  way, 
And  come  another  time.' 

For  you  must  stay  to  «  copy  off' 

And  polish  what  you  wrote, 
And  try  to  soften  if  you  can 

My  unharmonious  note. 

Even  when  I  come,  in  all  my  charms. 

To  catch  your  fickle  view, 
You,  starting,  turn  your  back,  and  cry, 

'  The  clock  is  striking  two.' 

Now.  what  has  two,  or  nine  o'clock 

To  do  with  you  and  me  ? 
And  what  delights  you  in  your  school, 

I'm  sure  I  cannot  see. 


Yet,  when  your  strange  excuses  o'er, 

You  sit  and  muse  alone, 
And  seem  to  look  as  if  you  wish'd 

Again  to  hear  my  tone. 

I  come  ;  and  then  with  curious  glance. 

My  scanty  robe  you  eye, 
And  count  my  curls,  and  measure  where, 

Each  flowing  tress  should  lie : 

And  wonder  why  such  tasteless  wreaths 

Of  faded  flow'rs  I  wear, 
And  chide  because  I  could  not  stay, 

To  dress  myself  w  ith  care. 

And  when  you  ask  to  hear  my  song* 

And  I  begin  to  play, 
You  utter,  <  that  is  out  of  tune/ 

And  snatch  the  lyre  away. 

Now  since  you  have  so  soon  forgot, 

My  service,  and  my  truth, 
My  kindness  to  your  childhood  shewn, 

My  friendship  for  your  youth  ; 

Go,  seek  some  other  muse,  who  loves 

Your  heavy  task  to  bear ; 
For  since  your  ways  so  much  are  changed, 

I  cast  you  from  my  care." 


113 

She  spake,  and  hid  her  glowing  face, 

Within  the  veil  of  night, 
And  gazing  as  the  vision  fled, 

I  trembled  with  affright ; 
Then  rose  in  sadness  from  my  bed, 

And  lo  !  I  could  not  write. 


AN  EXCUSE  FOR  NOT  FULFILLING  AN 
ENGAGEMENT. 


WRITTEN     IN    SCHOOL, 


MY  friend,  I  gave  a  glad  assent 
To  your  request  at  noon, 

But  now  I  find  I  cannot  leave 
My  little  ones  so  soon. 

I  early  came,  and  as  my  feet 
First  entcr'd  at  the  door, 

"  Remember"  to  myself  I  said, 
"  You  must  dismiss  at  four." 


114 

But  slates,  and  books,  and  maps  appear* 

And  many  a  dear  one  cries, 
"  Oh,  tell  us  where  that  river  runs, 

And  where  those  mountains  rise  ; 

And  where  that  blind,  old  monarch  reign'cU 

And  who  was  king  before, 
And  stay  a  little  after  five, 

And  tell  us  something  more.'* 

And  then  my  little  A  *  *  *  *f  comes. 

And  who  unmoved  can  view, 
The  glance  of  that  imploring  eye, 

"  Oh,  teach  me  something  too." 

And  who  would  think  amid  the  toil, 

(Tho'  scarce  a  toil  it  be,) 
That  through  the  door,  the  muses  coy 

Should  deign  to  peep  at  me. 

Their  look  is  somewhat  cold  and  stern. 

As  if  it  meant  to  say, 
"  We  did  not  know  you  kept  a  school.* 

AVe  must  have  lost  our  way." 

Their  visit  was  but  short  indeed, 

As  these  light  numbers  show  ; 
But  Oh  !  they  bade  me  write  with  speed, 

My  friend,  I  cannot  go. 

f  A  child  deprived  of  the  powers  of  hearing1,  and  of  speech". 


115 


THE  RISING  MOON. 


BENEATH  the  soft  glance  of  the  slow-rising 
moon, 

Where  the  landscape  was  silent  I  rov'd, 
While  pleasures  departed  by  memory  were  shewn, 

And  I  thought  of  the  friends  I  had  lov'd. 

The  mild  breeze  of  eve  through  the  branches  that 
sigh'd, 

Let  fall  its  pure  dews  on  my  cheek, 
And  my  heart,  as  it  quicken'd  its  rapturous  tide,, 

Felt  more  than  my  language  could  speak. 

"  I  give,  Holy  Father,  my  being  to  thee  ! 

Oh,  deign  to  accept  of  the  boon  ; 
Most  humbly  I  render  this  sacrifice  free* 

As  I  gaze  on  the  fair,  rising  moon. 

Protect  me  from  folly,  preserve  me  from  change. 
From  darkness,  and  errors,  and  cares  ; 

And  while  thro'  this  field  of  temptation  I  range, 
Oh,  break  thou  its  charms  and  its  snares. 


116 


And  soon  may  I  reach  that  blest  mansion  alar. 

Where  the  toils  of  this  journey  are  o'er  ; 
Where  the  pale  rising  moon,  and  the  mild  evening; 
star 

Shall  shed  their  weak  lustre  no  more. 


' 

SABBATH  MORNING. 


CANST  thou  let  thy  spirit  lie 
Cold  with  inactivity  ; 
Canst  thou  press  thy  couch  of  rest, 
Cherish  torpor  in  thy  breast, 
On  the  day  thy  God  has  chose, 
On  the  day  thy  Saviour  rose  ? 

Break  the  seal  that  binds  thine  eyes, 
Sleeper  I  from  thy  sleep  arise  ! 
Wake,  as  morning  wakes  from  night, 
Rise,  and  Christ  shall  give  thee  light. 


117 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  AFFLICTION. 


THE  boasted  joys  of  time,  how  swift  they  fly, 
Rent  from  the  heart,  and  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
An  hour  they  flourish,  in  an  hour  decay, 
Bend  to  the  earth,  and  fade,  and  pass  away. 
But  we,  frail  beings  !  shrinking  from  the  storm* 
AVe  love  these  skies  which  gathering  clouds  de 
form, 
\Ve  lean  too  fondly  on  our  house  of  clay, 

Though  every  blast  may  sweep  some  prop  away  j 
Yet  wounded  oft,  as  oft  renew  our  toil, 
To  raise  a  fabric  on  this  mould'ring  soil, 
And  still  we  strive,  forgetful  of  the  grave, 
To  sink  an  anchor  in  the  tossing  wave. 

But  He,  who  marks  us  in  our  vain  career, 
Oft  smites  in  pity  what  we  hold  most  dear  ; 
Spreads  o'er  the  face  belov'd  the  deathful  gloom, 
And  hides  a  parent  in  the  lonely  tomb  ; 
Makes  the  sad  heart  his  strong  correction  feel, 
Wounds  to  admonish,  and  afflicts  to  heal ; 
Reminds  the  spirit  of  her  heavenly  birth, 
And  breaks  her  strong  alliance  with  the  earth, 
Warns  her  to  seek  for  better  climes,  prepar'd>     . 
To  give  the  faithful  soul  a  full  reward. 


118 


There  may  we  meet,   dear  friend,  where  pain 

shall  cease, 

"Where  grief  shall  end  in  joy,  and  care  in  peace? 
Where  no  sweet  hope  in  bitterness  shall  end, 
No  sad  tear  fall  to  mourn  the  buried  friend  ; 
No  parting  hour  arrive,  no  hand  divide 
Those  by  eternity's  strong  hands  allied  ; 
No  sin  shall  rise,  no  folly  stain  the  soul* 
But  one  unclouded  year  forever  roll. 


MORNING  THOUGHTS. 


AWAKE  !  awake  !  the  rosy  light 
Looks  through  the  parted  veil  of  night 
Awake  !  arise  !  short  space  hast  thou 
On  earth,  and  much  thou  hast  to  do  : 
Another  morn  to  thee  is  given, 
Another  gift  from  bounteous  heaven 
Is  lent  to  thee,  while  many  sleep 

To  wake  no  more  on  earth  again  ; 
Is  sweet  to  thee,  while  many  weep, 

Deep  sunk  in  grief,  or  torn  with 


119 

Oh,  spring  to  life !  with  joy  renew 'd, 
And  pour  the  strain  of  gratitude, 
On  bended  knee,  with  holy  fear, 
"With  humhle  hope,  with  faith  sincere. 

Before  the  sun  shall  raise  his  head 
To  smile  upon  the  blushing  day, 

Or  from  his  chamber  rush  to  lead 

The  young,  and  thin-rob'd  dawn  away. 

Before  the  morn  with  tresses  fair 
Shall  sail  upon  the  waveless  air, 
Oh,  let  thy  soul  ascend  as  free, 
Thy  heart  be  tun'd  to  harmony, 
And  meekly  to  thy  M  aker  bear, 
The  early  vow,  the  early  prayer, 
Unstain'd  with  shades  of  earthly  care. 

Kneel  like  a  suppliant  at  his  feet, 
Yet  like  a  child  address  his  throne,, 

And  let  an  hour  so  calm,  so  sweet, 
Be  sacred  to  thy  God  alone. 


120 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  REPROOF  VERSIFIED. 

«  WHY  weep'st  thou,  fair  One  ?"  Ah  !  a  ruth- 

less  stroke, 

'<  A  painted  vase,  that  much  I  lov'd  has  broke." 
Another  mourner,  still  the  sage  espied, 
"  And  why  weep'st  thou  ?  My  son  !  my  son  !" 

she  cried. 

Deep  lost  in  thought,  the  man  of  wisdom  mov'd, 
And  thus  his  lips  their  utter'd  grief  reprov'd  ; 
"  How  vain  the  tears  that  from  those  eye-lids 

stray, 

"  To  wet  the  fragments  of  a  vase  of  clay ; 
"  And  vain  alike  to  mourn  our  mortal  birth, 
ft  Or  hope  a  deathless  date,  for  a  frail  child  of 

earth." 


121 


THE  ADIEU. 


THE  evening  moon  was  bright  and  fair, 
The  dews  of  Spring  had  chill'd  the  air ; 
And  as  I  pac'd  the  gloomy  shade, 
The  dark  rock  hanging  o'er  my  head, 
I  thought  a  mournful  spirit  said, 

Adieu  !  Adieu  ! 

And  sad,  my  heart  with  echoing  tone 
Sigh'd  back  again  the  closing  moan  ; 
The  hour,  by  fate's  dark  curtain  hid, 
Comes  gliding  on,  the  shades  amid, 
When  I,  to  all  I  love  must  bid, 

Adieu  !  Adieu  J 

Ye,  who  have  strove  to  lead  my  youth, 
In  ways  of  wisdom,  ways  of  truth, 
Have  sooth'd  my  heart,  or  charm'd  my  ear, 
Companions  sacred,  friends  sincere, 
Instructors,  parents,  guardians  dear, 

Adieu  !  Adieu  ! 

Ye  scenes  in  nature's  hues  array'd, 
The  glowing  dawn,  the  twilight  shade, 
The  dews  of  morning,  blaze  of  noon, 
12 


122 

Ye  sparkling  stars,  and  pale-fac'd  moon, 
And  fount  of  light — resplendent  sun, 

Adieu  !  Adieu  ! 

journey  to  a  blissful  spot, 
Where  your  fair  light  is  needed  not ; 
And  through  the  vale  of  deathful  gloom, 
And  through  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
1  hasten  to  a  better  home, 

Adieu  !  Adieu  ! 


FOR  THE  BLANK  PAGE  OF  A  NEW 
BIBLE. 


LET  not  tlie  eye  that  idly  seeks  for  mirth, 
Fix  on  this  page  inspired  its  roving  look  ; 

Nor  let  the  heart  absorb'd  in  love  of  earth, 
Expect  its  cordial  from  this  holy  book. 

The  upright  soul  that  scorns  deceit  and  art, 
The  eye  mild  gleaming  thro'  the  contrite  tear 

The  meek  in  spirit,  and  the  pure  in  heart, 
Alone  can  find  divine  instruction  here. 


123 


This  sheds  a  lustre  o'er  the  darken'd  skies, 

When  the  thick  clouds  of  care  and  sorrow  roll : 

This,  when  the  storms  descend,  and  billows  rij 
Holds  a  firm  anchor  to  the  troubled  soul. 

This,  when  the  bloom  of  youth,  the  hour  of  ease, 
And  star  of  fortune  veil  their  fickle  ray, 

When  friendship's  smile,  and  love's  fond  accents 

cease, 
Shall  lead  to  raptures  more  sublime  than  they. 

This,  from  the  wreck  of  joy  that  hope  shall  bring, 
Whose  bright  eye  pierces  thro'  the  mists  of  time ; 

And  from  the  urn  of  hope  shall  spread  the  wing, 
That  wafts  the  spirit  to  a  purer  clime. 


EVENING  THOUGHT. 


The  evening  zephyr  on  its  wings 
The  sigh  of  recollection  brings, 
For  days  and  seasons  past ; 


124 


And  with  it  too,  a  voice  it  bears, 
Trust  to  your  God,  your  hopes  and  cares, 
Xjgur  fears,  your  comforts,  and  your  pray'rs. 
>Vhile  days  and  seasons  last. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 


0JV  hearing  her  observe  that  "  accomplishments  or 
talents  ought  not  to  excite  vanity,  but  to  lead  our 
hearts  in  gratitude  to  our  Bountiful  Creator." 


SWEET  is  the  hlush  of  vernal  rose, 
And  sweet  the  glance  that  beauty  throws, 
And  fair  the  light  whose  varied  ray, 
Marks  feeling's  glow,  and  fancy's  play  ; 
But  when  in  gentle  accent  flows, 
The  precept  pure,  that  wisdom  shows, 
The  mental  eye  with  rapture  fraught 
Surveys  the  semblance  of  the  thought, 
And  sweeter  is  the  meed  it  pays, 
Than  that  which  wakes  the  flatterers  gaze. 


125 

And,  fair  one,  when  the  hues  that  paint 

The  youthful  cheek,  grow  dim  and  faint, 

And  when  the  voice  of  softest  tone, 

Must  falter  in  its  final  moan, 

And  nought  remain  of  life  or  grace, 

But  what  the  eye  in  tears  must  trace, 

The  pious  soul  from  error  freed, 

The  thought  that  wak'd  the  virtuous  deed, 

Shall  rise  above  the  closing  tomb, 

Shall  bloom  where  blight  can  never  come. 


VAIN  PURSUITS, 


Some  rejoice  in  pleasure's  beam, 
Some  in  fortune's  glittering  stream, 
Some  in  beauty,  some  in  pride, 
Some  in  honour's  treacherous  tide  ; 
While  with  giddy  haste  they  pass> 
Like  the  insect  o'er  the  grass. 


126 

Darkness  shades  the  fickle  beam, 
Dims  the  beauty,  dries  the  stream, 
Breaks  the  spell  that  blinds  the  eyes,. 
And  with  the  dream,  the  dreamer  dies. 


REGARD  DUE  TO  THE  FEELINGS  OF 
OTHERS. 


THERE  is  a  plant  that  in  its  cell, 
All  trembling  seems  to  stand, 

And  bend  its  stalk,  and  fold  its  leaves, 
From  each  approaching  hand. 

And  thus  there  is  a  conscious  nerve, 

Within  the  human  breast, 
That  from  the  rash  or  careless  hand. 

Shrinks,  and  retires — distrest. 

The  pressure  rude,  the  touch  severe. 

Will  raise  within  the  mind, 
A.  nameless  thrill,  a  secret  tear. 

A  torture  undefined. 


127 

0  you,  who  are  by  nature  form'd, 
Each  thought  refin'd  to  know, 

Repress  the  word,  the  glance,  that  wakes 
That  trembling  nerve  to  woe. 

And  be  it  still  your  joy  to  raise 
The  trembler  from  the  shade, 

To  bind  the  broken,  and  to  heal 
The  wounds  you  never  made. 

When  e'er  you  see  the  feeling  mind, 

Oh,  let  this  care  begin, 
And  though  the  cell  be  rude  or  low. 

Respect  the  guest  within. 


A  SUMMER  MORNING. 


FAIR  on  the  features  of  the  morn, 

A  blush  of  purple  glows, 
While  waking  plants,  and  opening  flowers, 

Their  fragrant  breath  disclose. 


128 


While  clustering  mercies  seem  to  bloom, 

And  in  my  path  to  meet, 
May  grateful  tho'ts  spontaneous  rise. 

And  pour  their  incense  sweet. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  NIGHT. 


THE  queen  of  night  rode  hold  and  high, 
Her  path  was  white  with  stars, 

Her  cheek  was  sanguine,  and  her  eye 
Glanc'd  on  the  blood  stain'd  Mars. 

No  word  she  spake,  no  sign  .she  made, 
Save  that  her  head  she  bow'd, 

As  if  a  cold,  good  night  she  bade. 
To  some  departing  cloud. 

A  fleecy  robe  was  loosely  cast, 

Around  her  graceful  form, 
She  hid  her  forehead  from  the  blast, 

Hoarse  herald  of  the  storm. 


129 

But  soon  she  staid  her  rushing  car, 

And  check'd  her  rapid  rein, 
For  morn  beheld  her  from  afar, 

And  frown'd  upon  her  train. 

The  queen  of  night,  and  rosy  morn, 

Together  might  not  dwell ; 
One  came  to  rouse  the  slumbering  dawn> 

The  other  sought  her  cell. 


THE  COURAGE    OF  CESAR. 


ONCE  o'er  a  dangerous  sea  with  weary  oar, 

A  feeble  bark  the  mighty  Cesar  bore, 

The  tempest  roar*d,  the  trembling   steersman 

fear'd, 

When  thus  a  firmer  tone  his  spirit  cheer'd  5 
"  Fear  not  0  Pilot !  brave  the  stormy  sea, 
"  Thou  bearest  Cesar,  and  his  fate  with  thee." 

So  thou,  0  Christian,  when  thy  helm  is  lost, 


ISO 


And  on  the  sea  of  life  thy  hark  is  tost ; 
Fear  not  the  billows  hoarse,  or  tempest  dark^. 
For  thy  Redeemer  guides  the  cleaving  bark. 


MORNING. 


THE  morning  clouds  afar  are  roll'd. 

The  birds  awake  my  rest, 
And  see  a  ray  of  liquid  gold 

Comes  darting  from  the  east. 

What  shall  I  render  to  the  friend, 
From  whom  my  blessings  flow  ? 

What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  my  God, 
Whose  hand  supports  me  so  ? 

Oh,  raise  my  earth-born  soul  above, 

Bid  all  my  pow'rs  adore, 
Nought  can  I  render  for  thy  love, 

But  this  request  for  more. 


EVENING. 


COOL  evening's  breath  is  calmly  shed, 
And  o'er  the  earth,  damp  vapours  spread, 
Lost  is  her  robe  of  infant  green, 
And  clos'd  the  eye  of  day  is  seen. 

But  Oh,  an  eye  that  never  sleeps, 
Its  silent  watch  o'er  Israel  keeps, 
A  tempered  shield  is  o'er  him  spread, 
An  arm  of  love  sustains  his  head . 
A  seraph  voice. is  in  his  ear, 
Sleep  sweetly,  for  thy  God  is  near. 


THE  EQUANIMITY  OF  ZENO. 


ONCE  came  a  friend,  whose  cheek  was  wet  with 

tears, 
And  gave  this  message  to  the  Stoic's  ears : 


1S2 


w  0  man  belov'd  !  thy  firmest  strength  prepare, 
To  meet  the  tidings  I  am  doom'd  to  bear ; 
A  dreadful  storm  thy  wrecking  ships  did  sweep, 
And  whelm  thy  riches  in  the  howling  deep." 

<(  Receive  my  thanks,  O  Fortune  !   thou  hast 

drove 

Me  to  my  studies,  and  my  learned  grove,  / 
My  hooks,  my  toils,  which  cheer  the  lengthened 

day, 
And  for  whose  loss  thy  gifts  could  never  pay." 


FIRST  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF  THE  REV.  MR.  HOOKER. 


SAD  o'er  thy  damp  and  lonely  bed, 

The  herbage  springs,  the  long  grass  sighs. 

The  sculptured  stone  erects  its  head, 
And  sorrow  lifts  her  tearful  eyes. 

But  ah  !  the  guise  of  woe,  how  vain, 

The  sculptur'd  stone,  the  mourner's  tear, 

To  him  who  scap'd  this  world  of  pain, 
Smiles  calmly  in  a  purer  sphere. 


133 


REFLECTION. 


A.S  I  pensively  sat  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
When  its  cares,  and  its  labours  were  o'er, 

To  muse  on  the  tracks  of  my  wandering  way. 
Or  the  path  I  had  yet  to  explore : 

It  seem'd  on  the  lip  of  the  evening,  there  sigh'd 

A  warbling  and  tremulous  tone, 
As  if  the  soft  stream,  in  its  murmuring  tide, 

Had  calPd  to  the  stars  as  they  shone. 

•'<  Set  not  on  the  things  of  the  earth  your  delight, 
Nor  give  to  its  pleasures  your  heart ; 

Lest  you  sigh  at  their  wounding,  or  mourn  for 

their  flight, 
Or  sink  as  you  see  them  depart. 

And  then  shall  your  spirit  so  anxious  repose, 
And  then  shall  your  heart  be  at  peace, 

In  the  grave,   where  your  wearisome  journey 

shall  close, 
In  heaven,  where  your  sorrows  shall  cease." 


134 


A  THOUGHT. 


THE  youthful  hope,  the  youthful  smile. 

That  gild  our  journey  o'er, 
Like  man,  hut  stay  a  little  while, 

Then  sink  to  rise  no  more. 


THE  EVILS  OF  HASTE. 


THE  rash  resolve,  the  headlong  course. 

The  heart  too  quickly  set, 
Make  bitter  work  for  deep  remorse, 

And  for  a  long  regret. 

Then  bow  to  hear  this  lesson  meek, 

And  let  it  check  thy  pride ; 
-Be  swift  to  hear,  and  slow  to  speak, 

And  cautious  to  decide. 


135 


TRUST  IN  THE  ALMIGHTY. 


OH,  lift  thy  thought  above  the  gathering  gloom, 
Above  the  falling  friend,  the  senseless  clod, 

Above  the  knell,  the  shadow,  and  the  tomb, 
And  let  thy  sad  glance  seek  the  orphan's  God. 

He,  when  the  rains  descend,  and  surges  roll, 
Bounds  the  rough  billows  with  his  mighty  span, 

He  breaks  the  tempest,  calms  the  troubled  soul, 
Stills  the  wild  storm,  and  heals  the  heart  of 
man. 

He  rules  the  pride  of  elemental  strife, 
He  bids  the  tumults  of  the  nations  cease, 

And  from  the  troubles,  and  the  storms  of  life, 
Spreads  forth  the  white  wing  of  the  angel — 
peace. 

What    though    our  hopes   forsake  this  barren, 

ground, 
What  though  our  branch  of  earthly  trust  be 

riven, 

And  frail  as  dew  our  mortal  joys  be  found, 
We  still  may  hope  for  bliss  at  last  in  Heaven. 


LIFE. 

f 

Life,  passing*  like  the  morning  ray, 
Speeds  swiftly  on  its  rapid  way, 
And  cloBes,  with  the  closing  day, 

So  pass  away  the  generous  mind, 
The  faultless  form,  the  soul  refm'd, 
The  friend  sincere,  the  parent  kind. 

So  pass  we  all :  the  heart  must  fail, 
The  dim  eye  close,  the  cheek  turn  pale, 
As  sinks  to  earth  this  fabric  frail. 

And  thou,  whose  eye  may  view  this  line, 
AVhen  low  in  dust  my  limbs  recline, 
Though  dead,  I  speak,  that  fate  is  thine. 

Go,  seek  his  love,  whose  blood  was  shed, 
In  streams  on  awful  Calvary's  head, 
Go.  cleanse  thee  in  that  torrent  red  : 

Then  happy,  whoso'er  thou  art, 
ff  here  thou  stay,  or  hence  depart, 
For  Christ  shall  bear  thee  on  his  heart. 


137 


VANITY. 


AH  !  why  should  vanity  enslave 
A  mortal  journeying  to  the  grave  ? 
Ah  !  why  should  pride  inflate  a  breast, 
So  soon  beneath  the  clods  to  rest  ? 
Yet  still  we  yield  to  folly's  reign, 
And  strive  to  break  her  sway  in  vain. 

O  holy  Saviour,  hear  our  prayer, 
Behold  our  toil,  our  fruitless  care, 
And  let  thy  Spirit  crush  the  foes 
That  so  disturb  our  soul's  repose. 


DECEPTION. 

i 

WHO  can  detect  the  bosom's  hidden  pain, 
When  peace,  and  love,  and  beauty,  light  the  scene, 
Ah,  who  can  tell  what  sins  the  heart  may  stain 
When  smiles  of  mirth  and  pleasure  deck  the  me  in? 
*13 


138 


For  oft  hypocrisy  will  smile  serene, 
Veiling  her  falshood  with  a  semblance  fair, 
Soothing  her  victim  while  she  toils  unseen, 
To  wind  him  fast  in  her  destructive  snare, 
While  disappointed  hope  and  misery  are  there* 


PSALM  CXIX. 


"  Unless  thy  law  had  been  my  delight,  I  should  then 
Rave  perished  in  my  affliction," 


HAD  not  thy  righteous  law  heen  my  delight, 
When  friends  forsook  and  earthly  comforts  fled, 

And  cruel  foes  display 'd  their  envious  spite, 
Most  surely  I  had  sunk  among  the  dead, 
And  cold  oblivion's  dew  had  rested  on  my  head. 

Yet  stiD  I  live,  Oh,  let  my  praise  arise, 
To  Him  who,  cloth'd  with  majesty  and  might, 

And  seated  in  his  temple  of  the  skies, 
Sends  gifts  to  man,  with  peace,  and  life,  and  light ; 
But  thou,  my  soul,  art  vile  and  sinful  in  his  sight; 


139 


Oh,  lead  me  from  those  paths  with  error  fraught. 
Whose  snares  too  oft  my  heedless  steps  betide  ; 

Restrain  the  hasty  speech,  and  roving  thought, 
And  fear  of  feeble  man,  and  causeless  pride, 
And  all  the  secret  ills  that  in  my  heart  reside. 


ON  HEARING  A  TOLLING  BELL. 


CAST  out  and  banish'd  from  thy  sight, 
I  cannot  live  without  thy  love, 

I  cannot  dwell  without  thy  light, 
In  earth  below,  or  heaven  above. 

Cast  me  not  off:  my  strength  is  small ; 

What  can  I  in  the  day  of  death  ? 
Forsake  me  not,  or  else  I  fall, 

My  life  is  but  an  air^  breath. 


140 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  THE  FIRST  DAY  OF 
THE  NEW  YEAR. 


AS  the  strong  oak,  when  its  green  houghs  are 

riven, 

Firm  on  its  base  still  lifts  its  head  to  heaven, 
As  the  pure  stream  which,  rushing  from  its  source, 
Bounds  o'er  the  roeks  which  seek  to  bar  its  course, 
So  meet  the  ills  of  life  ;  until  the  sea 
Of  time,  shall  meet  the  tide,  of  vast  eternity. 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  MRS.  NOTT,  WITH 
THE  MISSIONARIES  FOR  INDIA. 


ADIEU  to  her  to  whom  my  soul  was  dear, 
Of  life  unblemislr  d,  andftf  heart  sincere, 
A  long  adieu  !  for  never,  never  more, 
Must  that  lov'd  footstep  press  its  native  shore. 
Friend  of  my  heart !  now  parted  far  from  me, 
Borne  on  the  bosom  of  the  faithless  sea, 
Thou  soon  must  o'er  the  wilds  of  Asia  stray, 


141 


Where  the  rude  Hindoo  holds  his  devious  way. 
Where'er  thou  art,  my  spirit  flics  to  thine, 
Bound  with  the  cord  of  sympathy  divine, 
And  faith  still  looks  beyond  this  scene  of  pain, 
Where  holy  friendship's  bands  shall  ne'er  be  rent 
again. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


The  emotions  arising  from  mutual,  unlimited  friend 
ship  and  entire  confidence,  are 


SOMETHING  than  pleasure  dearer,  more  elate 
Than  doubtful  hope  ;•  more  pensive  too  than  joy  $ 
More  pure  than  love.     They  form  a  band  of  such 
Confirmed  alliance,  so  constrain  the  will, 
Sooth  the  rough  passions,  jingle  with  such  art 
The  hopes,  the  fears,  the  raptures  of  the  soul, 
That  selfishness  is  lost,  and  one  free  aim 
Inspires  two  spirits,  while  one  magic  band 
Entwines  each  heart,  and  so  unites  their  strength 
That  pressing  onward  they  despise  the  front 


And  force  of  opposition  ;  foil  the  shafts 

Of  envy,  meet  the  armed  hosts  of  care, 

And  find  stern  grief  of  half  her  power  disarm'd 

Then  if  these  souls  unite  in  virtue's  cause, 
Their  mystic  union  never  shall  dissolve, 
Or  in  this  life,  or  in  the  life  to  come. 


EXCLAMATION  DURING  A  STORM  OF  THUN 
DER  AND  LIGHTNING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


OH,  praise  Him  while  the  thunders  roll, 
And  while  the  lightnings  dart, 

And  praise  Him  in  that  grateful  strain, 
The  incense  of  the  heart. 


143 


DEDICATION  FOR  A  BOOK  OF  POETI- 
CAL  EXTRACTS,  TO  A  FRIEND. 


TO  aid  the  garland  yet  untwin'd, 

And  gently  swell  this  budding  wreath, 

A  wild  and  mountain  flow'r  I  bind, 

And  o'er  its  leaves  the  lyre  shall  breathe, 

And  as  you  seek  for  varying  sweets, 

The  future  chaplet  to  compose, 
Tread  lightly  o'er  those  lone  retreats, 

Where  genius  hides,  and  beauty  glows. 

Ask  from  the  opening  rose  its  bloom, 
Ask  of  its  buds  their  tissued  fold, 

Seek  the  meek  violet's  perfume, 

And  bow  to  cull  the  snow  drop  cold. 

Choose  freely  from  the  gay  parterre, 

Or  groves  where  oaks  their  shadows  cast. 

And  climb  the  cliff  where  high  in  air, 
The  evergreen  endures  the  blast. 

From  cold  recess  where  forests  wave, 
Pluck  the  wild  laurel  bold  and  free, 

And  gather  from  the  Christian's  grave 
The  cypress  and  the  rosemary. 


144 

And  blend  with  these  the  varying  stalky 
That  fancy's  hand  in  sport  may  strew, 

Or  wisdom  scatter  in  her  walks, 
Or  pity  bring  all  damp  with  dew. 

And  if  you  rove  in  lonely  hour, 

"Where  rudely  rocks  on  rocks  are  pill*d, 
Perhaps  some  unexpected  flow'r 

May  pour  its  sweetness  on  the  wild. 

But  all  in  vain  this  anxious  round, 
In  vain  the  sweets  by  genius  given, 

Unless  with  these  that  flow?r  is  found, 
Whose  rich  perfume  ascends  to  Heav*n. 


TRANSIENT  JOY. 

' 

f' 
HOW  from  the  changeful  tablet  of  our  days, 

Fleets  the  light  trace  of  joy.     First  through  the 

clouds 

Serene  it  breaks,  and  on  the  lucid  ray 
The  pleas'd  eye  fixes.     Hap'ly  too  the  heart 
Hangs  there  too  fondly  ;  and  perchance  the  soul, 


145 


Cheer' d  by  an  April  smile,  forgets  to  seek 
For  clearer  sunshine,  and  a  sky  more  pure. 
Then  o'er  the  lustre  of  that  silver  beam, 
A  dark  shade  passes,  such  as  dims  the  pride 
Of  all  below  ;  it  sickens,  it  expires. 
Seek  not  with  eye  intense  to  pierce  that  cloud, 
Or  tear  that  veil  away  :  It  must  not  be  ! 
Nor  raise  the  murmuring  of  the  lip  perverse, 
Nor  arm  the  heart  with  impious  pride  ;  for  oft, 
The  heart  unhumbled,  rising  in  its  wrath, 
Provokes  more  vengeance  from  the  mighty  hand 
That  in  the  cloud,  and  in  the  sunshine  works, 
Moves  on  the  waters  to  abase  the  proud, 
And  raise  the  humble.    Will  the  hand  that  guides 
The  fall  of  the  pierc'd  sparrow,  and  unmark'd 
Suffers  no  hair  to  scatter  from  the  head 
Of  man  his  fav'rite,  let  the  sigh  of  grief 
And  tear,  and  prayer,  of  patient  suffering,  rise 
Unnoticed,  unregarded  ?  Oh  !  what  tongue 
Shall  dare  to  say  our  God  is  merciless. 
What  mortal  hand  shall  lift  itself  to  blot 
The  purpose  of  his  wisdom.     Let  the  eye, 
That  in  his  smile  or  in  his  frown  perceives 
^The  teachings  of  a  father,  aid  the  heart 
That  meekly  says— my  God  !  thy  will  be  done. 


14 


146 


BIRTH  DAY. 


THOU,  whose  kind  hand,  and  ever  watchful  care, 
Presents  another  year,  and  wakes  my  prayer, 
Guide  thou  my  steps,  direct  me  in  my  course, 
Crush  vain   resolves,   and  errors   strengthened 

force  5 

Impart  the  meek  desire,  the  hope  suhlime, 
The  thought  that  soars  ahove  the  scenes  of  time, 
The  hand  that  toils  untirM  for  other's  good, 
\nd  sets  the  seal  to  duty  understood, 
The  humble  heart,  the  sympathy  sincere, 
The  smile  for  joy,  for  misery,  the  tear, 
Balm  for  the  wounded,  for  the  drooping — aid, 
A  tranquil  trust  when  ills  of  life  invade, 
The  conscience  clear,  that  leads  to  sweet  repose, 
And  the  warm  thrill  that  pure  devotion  knows.^ 

f 

Let  gratitude  to  those  who  kindly  strew 
My  path  with  flow'rs,  he  uniform  and  new  ; 
And  still  my  spirit  reach  each  fair  degree 
Of  gratitude  to  those,  and  love  to  thee. 

What  shall  I  ask,  or  what  refrain  to  say, 
Where  shall  I  point,  or  how  conclude  my  lay  ? 
So  much  my  weakness  needs  j  so  much  thy  voice 
Assures  that  weakness,  and  confirms  my  choice. 


147 


Oh,  give  an  active  life  of  peace  and  truth, 
Strength  to  my  heart,  and  wisdom  to  my  youth  : 
A  sphere  of  usefulness — the  boon  to  fill 
That  sphere  with  duty,  and  perform  thy  will ; 
An  angel's  zeal  to  grace  my  little  span, 
And  the  meek  soul  of  him  who  died  for  man. 

«. 

And  when  at  last  the  heavy  shades  shall  fall, 
Of  that  dark  dream  which  comes  but  once  to  all, 
Whether  in  youth,  maturity,  or  age, 
Oh,  let  thy  gentle  care  my  pains  assuage, 
My  faith  support,  my  gathered  fears  remove, 
And  tell  my  spirit  of  thy  pardoning  love. 
Then  with  firm  heart  I'd  tempt  the  foaming  tides, 
Which  this  dark  land  from  that  of  bliss  divides, 
Lift  the  dim  eye  to  catch  the  smile  of  Heaven, 
Nerve  the  rent  heart  that  feels  its  sins  forgiven, 
Meet  with  calm  brow  the  dashing  billow's  roar, 
\nd  land  with  safety  on  the  eternal  shore. 


A  MOON-LIGHT  SCENE. 

THE  evening  blast  is  wild  and  loud, 
Like  winds  of  w inter  bleak, 

And  slowly  through  a  wat'ry  cloud. 
The  pale  moon  lifts  her  cheek. 


148 

Perhaps  upon  the  troubled  wave 

Of  life's  tempestuous  sea, 
Some  pensive  mourner  veils  her  brow.. 

As  sad  and  mournfully. 

While  round  the  adverse  tempests  fly* 
And  clouds  of  sorrow  roll, 

And  no  kind  voice  is  heard  to  sigh* 
In  mercy  to  the  soul. 

But  where  the  bending  concave  seems 
To  meet  the  mountain  fair, 

I  see  a  bright,  unclouded  sky, 
And  moon-beams  quiver  there. 

And  tho*  the  virtuous  soul  may  sink. 

With  clouds  and  storms  opprest, 
It  finds  at  last  a  peaceful  cell, 

Where  all  the  weary  rest. 


REQUEST. 

OH,  may  my  future  hours  be  given 
To  peace — to  wisdom,  and  to  heaven^ 
My  hopes  disdain  a  mortal  birth, 


149 

My  joys  ascend  above  the  earth, 
My  steps  retrace  the  path  they  trod, 
My  heart  be  fix'd  alone  on  God. 

So,  when  the  scenes  of  time  shall  fade, 
And  life's  frail  lamp  be  dark  with  shade, 
A  seraph's  voice  shall  sooth  my  breast, 
And  lead  me  where  the  weary  rest. 


(JARES  OF  EARTH. 


Whoever  has  attempted  to  /Lr  all  the  powers  of  his 
mind  upon  intellectual  or  religious  attainments,  must 
have  felt  and  mourned  the  intrusion  of  restless  pro 
jects  and  worldly  pursuits,  which,  under  the  name  of 
necessary  diligence,  or  laudable  economy,  usurp  pla 
ces  not  belonging  to  them,  and  check-  the  noblest  fruits 
of  the  soul. 

0  cares  of  earth  !  how  vast  and  strong  ye  rise, 
To  keep  the  spirit  from  her  kindred  skies ; 
To  blind  the  eye  which  looks  on  things  divine, 
*14 


150 


And  cool  the  heart  where  Christ's  own  love  might 

shine. 

Why  hold  ye  o'er  my  soul  this  restless  power  ? 
Why  steal  ye  thus  upon  the  midnight  hour  ? 
Why  will  ye  on  my  secret  haunts  intrude, 
And  hreak  the  charm  of  much  lov'd  solitude  ? 
For  whether  evening  stars  with  splendour  shine, 
Or  morning  lead  the  dawn,  or  day  decline, 
Or  meek  retirement  spread  her  soft  control, 
Or  intellectual  joys  inspire  the  soul, 
Or  active  zeal  the  ready  powers  command, 
Or  high  devotion  lift  her  sceptred  hand, 
Or  sad  contrition  wake  the  secret  tear, 
Still,  still,  ye  vain  pursuits,  ye  strive  to  hover 

near. 

Not  always  thus  your  hurden  shall  I  bear ; 
The  silence  of  the  tomb  ! — Ye  come  not  there  $• 
The  pure  abodes  of  bliss  ye  shall  not  stain, 
The  spirit  freed  and  cleans'd  yc  shall  not  pain. 
To  this  vain  world  is  your  short  reign  confin'dj 
This  empty  bubble  dancing  on  the  wind  ; 
A  little  while  your  boasted  arts  renew ; 
A  little  while — and  then,  *  long  and  last  adieiu 


151 


AN  ADDRESS 


FROM  A    IOCWO    PUPIL  AT    SCHOOL  FAR   FROM  HOME,    TO    HER  COX' 
PANIOSS,    ON    TEE    DEATH    OF    HER    FATHER. 


ASK  me  not  why  I  rise  with  brow  so  sad, 

Or  why  I  come  in  sable  vestments  clad, 

For  on  my  lips  the  painful  answer  dies, 

And  secret  woes  within  my  bosom  rise. 

Far,  far  away  I  see  a  distant  scene, 

Tho*  forests  rise,  and  lakes  are  spread  between ; 

Yet  there  the  sad  eye  turns,  and  views  with  pain 

A  mourning  mansion  and  a  weeping  train  : 

Low  o'er  a  recent  grave,  the  mourners  bend, 

"Where  sleeps  in  dust,  the  father  and  the  friend. 

Cold  is  that  heart  which  shared  in  all  my  joys, 
And  deaf  the  ear  that  lov'd  a  daughter's  voice, 
And  stiff  the  hand  that  dry'd  my  infant  tears, 
And  lost  the  guardian  of  my  early  years. 

Ah  !  who  ran  tell  hqw  many  pains  and  woes 
ThrilPd  thro'  that  frame  before  it  found  repose. 
Yet  in  those  days  fof  grief,  I  was  not  near, 
To  soothe  one  pang,  or  one  lone  hour  to  cheer ; 
And  when  he  sunk  to  rest,  I  wTas  not  by 
To  catch  the  last  glance  of  the  swimming  eye  ; 


152 


Or  hear  what  foiul  parental  love  might  say, 

Ere  its  last  sigh  convulsive  died  away. 

Yet  oft  before  my  eyes,  this  scene  will  glow, 

And  wake  the  tho'ts  that  only  w  ake  to  woe ; 

And  then  it  seems  as  if  a  distant  knell, 

Sigh'd  on  the  passing  gale — « farewell — farewell.* 

And  if  at  griefs  like  these,  the  soul  should  melt, 
You  will  not  wonder,  who  yourselves  have  felt ; 
Then  ask  not  why  I  mourn  departed  bliss, 
No  heart  is  cold  to  such  a  claim  as  this. 

Yet  not  to  shade  the  cheerful  face  with  gloom, 
Or  draw  one  tear  from  youth's  fair  eye  I  come  : 
Ah  !  no,  my  friends  beloved,  companions  true, 
I  rise  a  mournful  monitor  to  you. 
While  fragrant  flowers  your  op'ning  path  array, 
And  fond  paternal  love  your  toils  repay  ; 
While  from  those  hands  such  untold  favours  flow, 
Recount  your  debt,  and  muse  on  what  you  owe. 
The  deeds  of  love,  the  thousand  nameless  fears, 
That  mark'd  the  progress  of  your  infant  years ; 
The  patient  hand,  forgetful  of  its  toil, 
Ev'n  though  it  till'd  a  cold,  or  stubborn  soil ; 
The  anxious  heart  that  thrilPd  with  ceaseless 

pain, 

Lest  you  should  make  its  future  presage  vain  ; 
The  eye  that  often  wak'd,  and  watch'd,  and  wept, 
While  you  have  wandered,  or  while  you  have 

slept ; 


153 


The  sympathetic  joy,  the  kind  intent, 
The  fervent  prayer,  the  knee  in  secret  bent  $ 
Oh,  muse  on  these  along  your  flowery  way, 
Then  ask  your  heart,  and  what  hast  thou  to  pay  i 
Return  with  anxious  care  the  due  reward, 
No  painful  task  they  claim,  no  service  hard ; 
With  watchful  eye,  with  prompt  obedience  seek 
What  the  heart  dictates  e'er  the  lips  can  speak  : 
Still  bow  your  minds  to  mild  instruction's  sway, 
Nor  cast  the  morning  of  your  lives  away  ; 
Still  shun  the  paths  of  vice,  the  devious  ways, 
Where  levity  allures,  and  folly  strays  ; 
Let  sober  reason  all  your  actions  guide, 
And  crush  the  seeds  of  vanity  and  pride  ; 
Receive  with  grateful  hand  the  blessings  given, 
And  raise  the  thoughtful  eye,  and  heart  to  heaven, 
Be  studious  and  sincere,  be  meekly  wise, 
Bound  with  their  hopes  your  own  enjoyment  lies  : 
Fulfil  this  law  of  love,  this  service  due, 
And  soothe  those  hearts  that  beat  so  strong  for 

you. 

Then  when  the  hour  shall  come  I  now  deplore, 
When  those  dear  parent  guides  are  yours  no 

more ; 

And  when  with  filial  care,  and  solemn  dread, 
Your  arm  shall  pillow  the  expiring  head ; 
Or  when  with  sad  and  shrinking  heart  you  stand, 
To  feel  the  pressure  of  the  stiffening  hand, 
Or  wipe  the  death  dews  from  the  pallid  face, 
Or  shrinking  feel  the  last  and  cold  embrace, 


154 


Then  the  sad  tears  that  filial  love  must  pay, 
The  gentle  hand  of  hope  shall  wipe  away  ; 
And  mem'ry  kind  shall  spread  a  spotless  page, 
Like  some  broad  shield  to  hreak  affliction's  rage  ; 
And  through  the  skies  shall  gleam  to  soothe  your 

pain, 

This  parting  signal,  <•'  we  shall  meet  again ;" 
And  though  weak  nature   droops   opprest  witU 

woe, 

Firm  faith  shall  raise  the  spirit  bending  low, 
And  on  the  ear  shall  pour  an  heavenly  strain, 
Of  climes  remote  from  care,  and  loss,  and  pain, 
Where  pure  and  sacred  bands,  shall  ne'er  be  rent 

again. 


•<  WEEPING  MAY  ENDURE  FOR  A  NIGHT, 
BUT  JOY  COMETH  IN  THE  MORNING." 


AS  gathering  clouds  are  seen  to  fly 
Across  the  fair  and  summer  sky, 
As  vapours  damp  the  gales  of  spring, 
As  discords  jar  the  tuneful  string, 
So  o'er  our  lives  with  sadness  flow 


155 

The  dark  and  heavy  shades  of  woe ; 

But  short  their  power — the  frowns  they  cast, 

Like  April  storms  are  quickly  past. 

One  day,  perhaps,  our  skies  they  dim; 

One  night,  the  couch  with  tears  may  swim  ; 

But  morn  dispels  the  sahle  shroud. 

The  sun  of  mercy  lights  the  cloud ; 

A.n  unseen  power,  with  mild  control, 

Restores  the  weak  and  weary  soul, 

And  makes  the  wounded  spirit  whole. 


DETACHED  THOUGHTS. 


WE  are  creatures  of  circumstance,  inclina 
tion,  or  habit.  One  influences  us,  one  impels  us, 
one  fixes  us.  Some  are  so  much  influenced  by 
changing  circumstances,  that  they  have  no  rec 
tifying  principle,  but  revolve  with  the  wheel  of 
fortune.  Some  are  led  by  inclination  into  the 
paths  of  vanity  or  vice  ;  but  habit  finally  fixes 
us  all,  associates  us  to  some  set  of  ideas,  stamps 
upon  us  some  kind  of  character,  and  marks  us 
down  for  the  future  participation  of  joy,  or  for 
the  «  blackness  of  darkness  forever." 


When  we  least  expect  happiness,  it  is  oftcu 
nearest  ;  when  we  most  desire  it,  it  is  frequently 
farthest  from  our  reach.      Is   not  this  to   re 
press  the  pride  of  human  foresight,  to  humble  the 
15 


158 


vanity  of  anticipation  ;  and  since  we  know  not 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth,  to  teach  us  our  com 
plete  dependence  upon  him  «  who  holdeth  in  his 
hands  the  keys  of  life  and  death  ?" 


Physiognomy  is  an  uncertain  standard  of 
character.  The  emotions  to  which  a  person  is 
most  subject  may,  indeed,  mark  correspondent 
lines  upon  the  face,  if  their  exercise  is  violent 
or  protracted.  But  howr  at  first  sight  can  we 
gain  that  hidden  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
which  after  many  years  of  painful  study  we  often 
fail  of  attaining?  We  may  suppose  that  we  are 
but  imperfectly  acquainted  even  with  our  inti 
mate  friends,  if  we  consider  how  little  we  know 
of  our  own  prevailing  errors,  our  own  impercept 
ible  motives  of  action  ;  and  recollect  that  the  sages 
of  antiquity  pronounced  it  the  most  difficult  part 
of  knowledge,  for  man  to  know  himself. 


Why  will  some  sects  deny  the  necessity  of  lite 
rary  knowledge  to  Clergymen  ?  While  the  oppo- 
sers  of  religion  assiduously  cultivate  human  learn 
ing,  and  strengthen  the  weakness  of  their  cause 
by  their  own  erudition,  should  its  advocates  be 
deprived  of  an  useful  weapon,  and  the  <«  children 


159 


of  this  world  be  wiser  in  their  generation  than 
the  children  of  light !" 


How  can  any  one  deny  the  depravity  of  human 
nature,  who  perceives  in  his  own  heart  the  in 
roads  of  pride,  envy,  and  opposition  to  God  5 
who  sees  even  in  the  infant  mind,  seeds  of  rebel 
lion  and  ingratitude ;  who  beholds  a  globe  once 
so  fair  from  its  Maker's  hands,  polluted  with 
blood,  and  the  hatred  of  man  to  man  ;  who  knows 
that  the  Son  of  God  suffered  the  death  of  the 
cross,  that  our  sin  might  be  taken  away ;  and 
who  hears  the  voice  of  Omnipotence  proclaiming 
of  man,  "  every  imagination  of  the  thoughts  of 
his  heart  is  only  evil  continually  ?"  Nothing  but 
the  Spirit  of  God,  can  make  us  sensible  of  our  sit 
uation,  for  a  part  of  our  punishment  is  already 
begun — "  having  eyes  we  see  not,  having  ears  we 
hear  not,  having  hearts  we  do  not  understand." 


When  we  indulge  anger  at  any  provocation, 
we  prepare  work  for  repentance.  When  we 
practise  deception,  we  renounce  the  inward  sup 
port  of  rectitude.  When  we  seek  for  the  favour 
of  the  world,  we  encourage  vanity.  When  we 
neglect  to  speak  in  the  cause  of  piety,  we  forfeit 


160 


«ur  own  peace  of  mind,  and  lose  our  claim  upon 
that  divine  assistance  without  which  we  can  do 
nothing. 


When  the  feelings  have  heen  designedly  wound 
ed,  that  kind  of  assiduity  which  is  employed  un 
der  the  idea  of  effacing  the  remembrance,  often 
fails  of  its  effect,  by  leading  the  mind  back  to  the 
cause  which  produces  the  uncommon  attention, 
and  which  also  at  first  produced  the  pain.  This 
is  a  complex  idea ;  but  he  wiio  understands  but 
little  of  human  nature,  knows  that  it  is  easier  to 
gain  the  forgiveness  of  twrenty  offences,  easier  to 
appease  the  most  violent  anger,  than  to  heal  a 
wound  intentionally  inflicted  upon  an  ino .Tensive 
and  susceptible  heart.  The  wisest  of  men  has 
said — "  The  spirit  of  a  man  will  sustain  his  in 
firmity  j  but  a  wounded  spirit,  who  can  bear." 


It  is  not  enough  that  we  refrain  from  speaking 
evil  of  our  enemies,  if  ^ve  indulge  thoughts  of  en 
mity  towards  them.  Let  none  think  that  by  pla 
cing  a  guard  upon  his  expressions,  he  fulfils  the 
law  of  Christ,  if  within  his  heart  joy  rises  at  the 
distress  of  those  who  hate  him.  We  must  not 
rest  in  the  externals  of  duty,  we  have  a  judge 


161 


who  "  rcgardcth  not  the  outward  appearance;" 
neither  let  us  deceive  ourselves,  by  thinking  we 
have  already  obtained  victory  over  our  own 
hearts,  when  those  roots  of  bitterness  spring  up 
within  them,  which  hereafter  must  be  gathered, 
'*  and  bound  in  bundles  to  burn." 


Omit  a  duty  for  once,  and  it  will  be  more  diffi 
cult  to  execute  when  necessity  compels  its  per 
formance.  From  what  knowledge  I  have  of  my 
own  character  and  propensities,  I  find  that  I  am 
inclined  to  delay,  to  procrastinate,  and  to  neglect 
favourable  opportunities,  cither  from  not  duly 
appreciating  them,  or  from  a  vain  hope  that  they 
will  return  again. 


Friends,  benefactors,  and  enemies  are  neither 
more  or  less  to  us  than  an  Omnipotent  Being  sees 
fit  to  make  them.  Favours  and  insults,  gifts  and 
injuries,  are  neither  sent  us  at  random,  nor  with 
out  a  good  design  5  and  it  should  be  our  constant 
prayer  that  we  may  never  frustrate  the  intended 
good,  nor  miss  the  lesson  of  improvement  which 
the  page  of  providence  spreads  before  us. 


I  hope  1  can  bear  ingratitude  and  ill  treatment 
to  myself  $  and  may  heaven  preserve  me  from 
returning  the  same  to  others.  Any  misery  is- 
supportable  but  the  consciousness  of  having  de 
liberately  broken  the  good  law  of  duty.  Sins 
against  light,  and  against  love,  are  a  heavy 
weight  to  the  spirit,  and  leave  a  wound  which  the 
hand  of  divine  grace  only  can  heal ;  a  stain  which 
nothing  less  than  the  blood  of  the  Son  of  God  can 
wipe  away. 


The  disagreeable  occurrences  of  life  require 
us  to  watch  strictly  over  our  hasty  spirits.  When 
we  are  fatigued  with  exertion,  when  our  hearts 
are  joyless,  and  our  arms  nerveless,  and  we  find 
ourselves  annoyed  by  vexation,  perplexity,  or  con 
tradiction,  then  is  the  time  for  us  to  double  our 
mental  guard,  to  hold  strict  sway  over  the  mu 
tinous  powers,  and  to  reflect  deeply  upon  the  pre 
cept — "  He  that  hatli  no  rule  over  his  own  spirit 
is  like  a  city  broken  down — without  walls." 


The  more  we  encourage  plans  of  earthly  em 
ployment,  emolument,  or  happiness,  the  more 
we  put  out  of  view  the  things  unseen  and  eternal. 
In  this  there  is  a  warfare. — "  The  flesh  standeth 


163 


against  the  spirit,  and  the  spirit  against  the 
flesh ;"  and  nothing  but  the  stroke  that  separates 
them  can  destroy  this  opposition. 


Why  should  man  fear  death  ?  Why  should  we 
fear  to  tread  a  narrow  passage  to  a  better  world  ; 
to  pass  the  portal  of  a  temple  immortal,  not  made 
with  hands  ?  It  is  the  fear  of  futurity  that  plants 
thorns  in  the  pillow  of  death.  For  if  we  were  as 
sured  of  the  favour  of  Him  who  ruleth  in  that  un 
seen  world,  if  we  were  confirmed  in  our  title  to 
that  incorruptible  mansion,  though  the  parting 
from  present  things  might  be  painful,  or  the  pas 
sage  from  them  dreadful,  yet  we  should  lift  up  our 
heads,  and  rejoice,  knowing  that  our  redemption 
drew  nigh. 


If  you  yield  to  difficulties  you  encourage  weak 
ness  of  mind,  and  prepare  yourself  to  be  often 
overcome  and  held  in  bondage.  If  you  were  an 
inhabitant  of  Russia  or  Lapland,  would  you  say, 
I  cannot  go  out  to  my  usual  occupations  because 
the  snow  falls,  or  the  ice  has  covered  the  streets  ? 
Would  you  not  rather  wrap  your  garment  about 
you,  and  meet  the  present  inconvenience  for  the 
sake  of  a  future  good  ?  You  inhabit  a  world 


164 


where  difficulties,  vexations,  and  disappointments 
spring  up  in  the  paths  of  knowledge,  duty,  and 
enjoyment.  They  are  placed  there  as  an  exer 
cise  of  your  patience,  your  fortitude,  your  perse 
verance  :  go  forth  with  this  armour,  and  you 
shall  prevail ;  shrink,  and  be  a  slave  forever. 


Want  of  sincerity  is  observable  in  many  of  the 
Christians  of  the  present  day.  They  exhort,  but 
do  not  practise  ;  they  believe,  but  do  not  feel. 
The  consequence  is  that  they  neither  enjoy  what 
they  proft'ss,  nor  give  others  reason  to  suppose 
that  they  understand  what  it  implies. 


Religion  is  supposed  by  the  world  to  be  a  sys 
tem  of  rigour  and  austerity,  marking  its  misera 
ble  votaries  with  the  traces  of  melancholy,  and 
supplanting  all  the  innocent  affections  of  life. 
How  carefi.1  ought  its  professors  to  be,  that  their 
deportment  evince  no  uusociability,  moroseness, 
or  want  of  courtesy  ! 


"Why  should  we  mourn  that  we  are  so  weak, 
and  exposed  to  afflictions  j  when  one  liveth  to 


165 


strengthen  our  weakness,  and  to  sanctify 
afflictions,  if  wo  will  only  ask  him  in  faith,  noth 
ing  doubting? 


Those  who  know  nothing  of  the  duty  of  praye*, 
except  its  formal  performance,  would  he  aston 
ished  to  learn  what  strength  it  imparts  for  the 
difficulties,  trials,  and  perplexities  of  life. 


Can  a  mind  wholly  absorbed  in  the  things  of 
the  world  have  a  sincere  desire,  and  ardent  hope 
of  Heaven  ?  Can  a  heart  that  longs  supremely 
for  the  grandeur  and  false  splendour  of  life  be  right 
in  the  sight  of  God  ?  Can  a  spirit  that  looks 
disdainfully  upon  merit  unarrayed  have  a  right 
estimation  of  man  ?  Surely  no.  But  take  heed, 
thou  that  inscribest  these  sentences,  lest  thine 
heart  harbour  anger,  acrimony,  or  revenge,  lest 
in  judging  another,  thou  condemnest  also  thy 
self. 


Let  us  desire  a  disposition  to  return  good  for 
evil ;  and  to  walk  stedfastly  in  the  path  which 
our  duty  points  out,  not  abashed,  discouraged. 


166 


or  irritated  by  the  watchful  observations  of  those 
who  decry  religion,  and  hate  its  professors. 


Egotism  and  vanity  are  weapons  which  we  use 
against  ourselves.  We  wish  to  stand  high  in  the 
opinion  of  others  ;  but  nothing  destroys  our  own 
dignity  more  than  the  repetition  of  the  pronoun 
J.  We  wish  to  appear  gracefully  in  the  eyes  of 
others ;  yet  nothing  destroys  the  attraction  of 
beauty  more  effectually  than  vanity.  «  In  sim 
ple  manners  all  the  secret  lies." 


When  we  have  recovered  from  dangerous  ill 
ness  there  is  an  error  into  which  our  earth-bound 
minds  are  apt  to  fall.  This  is  entertaining  our 
friends,  with  every  symptom  and  variation  of  our 
malady,  instead  of  the  praise  of  our  great  physi 
cian.  Few  say,  "  Where  is  God  my  Maker,  who 
giveth  songs  in  the  night  I" 


Any  affliction  is  more  supportable  than  the 
consciousness  of  having  mispent  our  time,  and 
neglected  opportunities  for  usefulness.  The  re- 


167 


proach  then  falls  upon  ourselves,  and  this  kind 
of  "  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear." 


One  error  is  liable  continually  to  follow  us, 
and  destroy  the  good  effect  of  our  best  resolu 
tions.  This  is  a  spirit  of  procrastination,  a  neg 
lect  of  favourable  opportunities  for  usefulness, 
until  those  opportunities  are  past  beyond  recal. 
Then  follows  the  fruitlessness  of  regret,  and  the 
bitterness  of  self  reproach. 


If  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  know  how  to  di 
rect  our  course,  yet  the  path  of  rectitude  is  al 
ways  open  before  us,  and  we  need  not  hesitate  to 
pursue  it.  The  ambiguities  of  others  sometimes 
perplex  our  designs,  let  us  be  careful  that  no 
ambiguity  of  ours  may  ever  be  a  stumbling  block 
in  the  way  of  others. 


What  is  there  in  the  human  mind  so  trembling 
ly  vulnerable,  that  even  the  suddenness  of  blunt 
sincerity,  or  the  hasty  speech  of  thoughtlessness 
should  wound  it  like  the  thorn  of  unkindness  ? 
Those  tender  and  undelinable  feelings  must  often 


168 


thrill  and  vibrate  to  the  rude  touch,  unless  they 
become  gradually  hardened  by  the  rough  inter 
course  of  the  world. 


In  all  that  overtakes  us,  whether  joyful  or  af 
flictive,  we  should  recognize  the  hand  of  Provi 
dence.  Not  a  sparrow  falleth  without  it ;  how 
much  less  shall  the  children  of  men  pass  unnoticed, 
unregarded,  and  unprovided  for ! 


Disagreeable  circumstances  will  meet  us  in 
the  passage  of  human  life,  and  we  must  be  pre 
pared  to  sacrifice  to  them  neither  our  self  posses 
sion,  nor  our  inward  repose. 


How  can  any  say  that  we  may  merit  an  ever 
lasting  reward  by  the  imperfect  obedience  of  this 
fleeting  life  ?  If  our  humble  faith  and  patience 
are  at  length  clothed  with  a  spotless  robe  of 
righteousness,  who  wrought  out  this  robe  for  us  ? 
Can  impurity  merit  perfection  ?  Can  poverty 
pay  an  infinite  ransom  ?  "  Who  can  bring  a 
clean  thing  out  of  an  unclean  ?  Not  one."  There 
must  be  some  righteousness  which  we  have  not 


169 


wrought ;  some  reward  which  we  have  not  merit 
ed  ;  for  how  can  the  withering  insects  of  time 
compass  Eternity  ? 


It  is  a  blessing,  that  the  world  furnishes  us 
with  so  few  satisfying  pleasures;  and  that  in  our 
approaches,  to  what  are  supposed  its  purest  foun 
tains,  we  so  often  find  them  mixed  and  vapid. 
This  withdraws  our  grasp  from  its  perishable  pos 
sessions  ;  drives  us  to  the  strong  hold  of  hope  ; 
shuts  us  up  to  the  faith  of  the  gospel ;  and  if  the 
heart  sometimes  sickens  at  its  delusions,  it  learns 
that  in  heaven  only  it  can  find  peace, 


There  is  a  hand  that  writes  vanity  upon  every 
mortal  possession  and  hope.  There  is  a  touch 
colder  than  marble,  which  freezes  the  illusions  of 
fancy.  There  is  a  power  that  severs  the  close 
woven  web  of  man's  felicity,  and  cuts  the  strong 
Cordage  of  the  heart.  He  struggles  awhile  against 
that  dart  which  pierces  to  "  the  dividing  asunder 
of  soul  and  spirit ;"  and,  forgetful  that  he  is  of 
the  dust,  shudders  at  the  voice  which  proclaims, 
"  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return." 

16 


iro 


Real  benevolence  imparts  willingly,  and  is  thank- 
l\il  to  Him  who  furnishes  an  opportunity  of  so 
doing*.  Fashionable  benevolence  aids  those  in 
stitutions  which  are  applauded  among  men,  and 
repeats  how  much  she  has  given.  Covetousncss 
sometimes  parts  with  a  portion  of  its  gains,  fan 
cying  it  will  merit  either  prosperity  or  favour 
from  God.  My  Saviour  !  is  this  the  lesson  of 
benevolence  which  thou  hast  taught  us,  and  is  it 
of  little  consequence  how  we  obey  thy  perfect 
law  of  love  I 


Infidelity  often  shelters  itself  under  the  mask 
of  love  to  mankind,  and  a  desire  to  break  the 
shackles  of  superstition.  Thus  have  many  who 
are  called  Philosophers  been,  for  a  long  time,  la 
bouring  to  undermine  the  fabric  of  enjoyment 
and  hope.  Can  it  advance  the  felicity  of  man  to 
disbelieve  the  existence  of  a  God  ?  Or  quicken 
him  to  watchfulnsss  to  cast  away  the  idea  of  his 
own  accountability  ? 


* 

How  often  do  we  have  cause  to  lament  that  our 
good  resolutions  are  weakened  by  the  cares  and 
perplexities  of  life,  and  frequently  overthrown 
by  sudden  and  unexpected  occurrences  ! 


in 


Let  uPnot  seek  the  applause  of  men,  or  the 
pomp  and  vanity  of  life  ;  for  they  will  prove  hin 
drances  to  the  race  eternal.  But  let  us  patiently 
bear  every  appointed  trial,  looking  unto  Him  who, 
for  our  sakes,  was  content  to  bear  reproach  and 
to  be  crucified. 


The  Almighty  alone  can  soften  our  disappoint 
ments,  that  they  may  not  weaken  the  strength  of 
the  inward  man  j  and  apply  them,  so  as  to  change 
our  losses  into  gain,  and  our  tears  into  victory. 


Of  how  little  value  are  the  flowers  and  thorns* 
the  obstacles,  or  accommodations,  of  this  narrow 
region,  through  which  we  pass  as  travellers  and 
as  strangers  ?  AVhat  avails  it  where  we  pitch  our 
tent  which  may  be  shaken  and  destroyed  in  a  mo 
ment  ;  or  what  reception  we  meet  at  the  inn  where 
we  must  remain  but  for  a  night,  if  we  arc  at  last 
found  worthy  to  be  numbered  with  angels,  and  to 
have  our  lot  among  the  saints  ? 


How  does  the  office  of  a 'parent,  call  for  all  the 
teachings  of  affection,  and  all  the  vigilance  of  ex- 


ample;  and  how  does  it  impel  to  all  the  holy  vio 
lence  of  prayer,  lest  the  plant  should  at  last  fur 
nish  fuel  for  everlasting  burnings  ! 


"  Man's  life  consisteth  not  in  the  abundance  of 
the  things  that  he  possesseth."  Neither  the  use. 
respectability,  nor  enjoyment  of  the  present  life 
depends  on  external  treasures.  Far  less  are  the 
hopes  and  felicities  of  the  world  to  come  influen 
ced  by  such  slight  and  variable  causes.  "  The 
poor  of  this  world  hath  God  chosen,  rich  in  faith,, 
and  heirs  of  his  kingdom."' 


It  is  thought  by  some  that  where  there  is  a  taste 
for  literature,  and  advantages  for  its  cultivation, 
improvement  and  success  are  almost  inevitable, 
But  what  are  the  most  persevering  exertions  with 
out  the  divine  favour  ?  Nay — "  It  is  God  that  giv- 
eth  the  increase."  The  health  of  the  body,  the 
health  of  the  mind,  and  the  prosperity  of  the  soul, 
must  be  sought  after  in  the  same  manner,  and 
found  only  in  the  same  source. 


All  actions  that  proceed  from  a  principle  of 
vanity,  must  in  their  end,  be  unproductive,  and, 
in  their  restrospection,  bitter. 


173 


FIRST  OF  SEPTEMBER,  181S. 


A  BIRTH  day,  a  new  month,  a  new  season, 
and  a  new  journal,  meet  me  at  the  same  moment ! 
Reflections  press  upon  each  other,  and  the  spirit 
is  solemnized.  A  few  years  since,  and  I.  was  not  : 
a  few  years  to  come,  and  I  shall  not  be.  "We  re 
ceive  daily  conviction  of  the  vanity  of  earthly  en 
joyments,  the  fallibility  of  our  own  powers,  and 
the  unstable  character  of  our  own  hearts.  Might 
I  not  apply  to  myself,  what  the  dying  Patriarch 
addressed  to  his  first  born  Reuben  ? — "  Unstable 
as  water  thou  shalt  not  excell."  While  we  are 
compelled  to  perceive  our  imperfections,  we  must 
acknowledge  the  constant  watchfulness  and  love 
of  that  benevolent  Being  who  dealeth  not  with  us 
according  to  our  sins.  He  is  kind  to  us,  while  we 
arc  forgetful  of  him  ;  he  preserves  us,  though  we 
sec  him  not ;  he  is  near  us  when  we  sleep,  when 
we  wake,  and  when  we  wander.  The  past  year 
has  been  marked  with  health,  peace,  and  an  em 
ployment  which  1  love,  and  have  often  desired. 
My  request  is  to  be  better  prepared  for  its  vari 
ous  duties,  to  be  confirmed  in  it,  as  long  as  I  shall 
be  enabled  to  do  good,  and  to  have  the  affections 

*J6 


174 


of  those  who  are  entrusted  to  my  care.  My 
prayer  is,  to  he  made  an  instrument  of  real  good 
to  my  fellow  creatures,  and  that  all  my  selfish 
feelings  may  be  absorbed  in  love  to  God,  and  to 
man.  Many  errors  have  stained  my  life.  May 
their  dominion  be  broken,  their  effects  counteract 
ed,  and  their  record  blotted  from  the  dread  book 
of  remembrance.  The  past  has  been  a  year  of 
few  changes,  but  God  only  knows  what  are  ap 
pointed  to  me  in  this.  Perhaps  it  will  lead  on  my 
last  and  final  change.  May  I  often  reflect  upon 
..that  solemn  event ;  and  may  this  year  exceed  my 
whole  life  for  well  directed  exertions,  piety,  and 
preparation  for  it.  "Will  God  watch  over  me  in 
all  my  wanderings  with  the  tenderness  of  a  fath 
er,  w  ill  he  mercifully  order  all  my  earthly  chan 
ges  ;  and  when  that  hour  shall  come,  which  comes 
to  all,  will  he  not  purify  my  spirit,  and  take  it 
into  his  rest ;  because  one  intercedes  for  us,  who 
is  strong  to  suffer  and  mighty  to  save.. 


175 

PSALM  CXIX.  96. 

*«  /  have  seen  an  end  of  all  perfection." 

I  HAVE  seen  a  man  in  the  glory  of  his  days, 
and  the  pride  of  his  strength.  He  was  built  like 
the  tall  cedar  that  lifts  its  head  above  the  forest 
trees  ;  like  the  strong  oak  that  strikes  its  root 
deeply  into  the  earth.  He  feared  no  danger — he 
felt  no  sickness — he  wondered  that  any  should 
groan  or  sigh  at  pain.  His  mind  was  vigorous 
like  his  hody,  he  was  perplexed  at  no  intricacy, 
he  was  daunted  at  no  difficulty ;  into  hidden 
things  he  searched,  and  what  was  crooked  he 
made  plain.  He  went  forth  fearlessly  upon  the 
face  of  the  mighty  deep  j  he  surveyed  the  nations 
of  the  earth  ;  he  measured  the  distances  of  the 
stars,  and  called  them  by  their  names  ;  he  glori 
ed  in  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  in  the  vigour 
of  his  understanding,  and  strove  to  search  even 
into  what  the  Almighty  had  concealed.  And 
when  I  looked  on  him,  I  said.  "  What  a  piece  of 
work  is  man  !  how  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite 
in  faculties !  in  form  and  moving  how  express 
and  admirable  !  in  action  how  like  an  angel !  in 
apprehension  how  like  a  god  !'* 


176 


I  returned — his  look  was  no  more  lofty,  nor 
his  step  proud  ;  his  broken  frame  was  like  some 
ruined  tower  $  his  hairs  were  white  and  scatter 
ed  ;  and  his  eye  gazed  vacantly  upon  what  was 
passing  around  him.  The  vigour  of  his  intellect 
was  wasted,  and  of  all  that  he  had  gained  by 
study  nothing  remained.  He  feared  when  there 
was  no  danger,  and  when  there  was  no  sorrow 
he  wept.  His  memory  was  decayed  and  treach-* 
crous,  and  showed  him  only  broken  images  of 
the  glory  that  \vas  departed.  His  house  was  to 
him  like  a  strange  land,  and  his  friends  were 
counted  as  his  enemies  ;  and  he  thought  himself 
strong  and  healthful  while  his  foot  tottered  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave.  He  said  of  his  son — he 
is  my  brother  ;  of  his  daughter — I  know  her 
not ;  and  he  enquired  what  was  his  own  name. 
And  one  who  supported  his  last  steps,  and  minis 
tered  to  his  many  wants,  said  to  me,  as  I  looked 
on  the  melancholy  scene, — "  Let  thine  heart  re 
ceive  instruction,  for  thou  hast  seen  an  end  of  all 
earthly  perfection." 

I  have  seen  a  beautiful  female  treading  the 
first  stages  of  youth,  and  entering  joyfully  into 
the  pleasures  of  life.  The  glance  of  her  eye  was 
variable  and  sweet ;  and  on  her  cheek  trembled 
something  like  the  first  blush  of  the  morning  ; 
her  lips  moved,  and  there  was  harmony ;  and 
when  she  floated  in  the  dance,  her  light  form  like 


17? 


the  aspen  seemed  to  move  with  every  breeze.  I 
returned- — but  she  was  not  in  the  dance,  I  sought 
her  in  the  gay  circle  of  her .  companions  but  I 
found  her  not.  Her  eye  sparkled  not  there — the 
music  of  her  voice  was  silent — she  rejoiced  on 
earth  no  more.  I  saw  a  train  sable  and  slow- 
paced,  who  bore  sadly  to  an  opened  grave  what 
once  was  animated  and  beautiful.  They  paused 
as  they  approached,  and  a  voice  broke  the  awful 
silence  :  «  Mingle  ashes  with  ashes,  and  dust 
with  its  original  dust.  To  the  earth,  whence  she 
was  at  first  taken,  consign  we  the  body  of  our 
sister."  They  covered  her  with  the  damp  soil, 
and  the  cold  clods  of  the  valley  ;  and  the  worms 
crowded  into  her  silent  abode.  Yet  one  sad 
mourner  lingered,  to  cast  himself  upon  the  grave, 
and  as  he  wept  he  said, — "  There  is  no  beauty,  or 
grace,  or  loveliness  that  continueth  in  man  ;  for 
this  is  the  end  of  all  his  glory  and  perfection." 

I  have  seen  an  infant  with  a  fair  brow,  and  a 
frame  like  polished  ivory.  Its  limbs  were  pliant 
in  its  sports ;  it  rejoiced,  and  again  it  wept ;  but 
whether  its  glowing  cheek  dimpled  witli  smiles, 
or  its  blue  eye  was  brilliant  with  tears,  still  I  said 
to  my  heart,  "  It  is  beautiful."  It  was  like  the 
first  pure  blossom  which  some  cherished  plant  has 
shot  forth,  whose  cup  is  filled  with  a  dew-drop, 
and  whose  head  reclines  upon  its  parent  stem. 


178 


I  again  saw  this  child  when  the  lamp  of  rea* 
son  first  dawned  in  its  mind.  Its  soul  was  gentle 
and  peaceful ;  its  eye  sparkled  with  joy,  as  it 
looked  round  on  this  good  and  pleasant  world. 
It  ran  swiftly  in  the  ways  of  knowledge — it  bow- 
ed  its  ear  to  instruction — it  stood  like  a  lamh  he- 
fore  its  teachers.  It  was  not  proud,  or  envious, 
or  stubborn,  and  it  had  never  heard  of  the  vices 
and  vanities  of  the  world.  And  when  I  looked 
upon  it,  I  remembered  that  our  Saviour  had  said, 
"  Except  ye  become  as  little  children,  ye  cannot 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

But  the  scene  was  changed,  and  I  saw  a  man 
whom  the  world  called  honourable,  and  many 
waited  for  his  smile.  They  pointed  out  the  fields 
that  were  his,  and  talked  of  the  silver  and  gold 
that  he  had  gathered  :  they  admired  the  statcli- 
nes  of  his  domes,  and  extolled  the  honour  of  his 
family.  And  his  heart  answered  secretly,  "  By 
my  wisdom  have  I  gotten  all  this  :"  so  he  re 
turned  no  thanks  to  God,  neither  did  he  fear 
or  serve  him.  And  as  I  passed  along  I  heard 
the  complaints  of  the  labourers  who  had  reaped 
down  his  fields,  and  the  cries  of  the  poor  whose 
covering  he  had  taken  away  ;  but  the  sound  of 
feasting  and  revelry  was  in  his  apartments,  and 
the  unfed  beggar  came  tottering  from  his  door. 
But  he  considered  not  that  the  cries  of  the  op 
pressed  were  continually  entering  into  the  ears 


179 


ol' the  most  High.  And  when  I  knew  that  this 
man  was  once  the  teachable  child  that  I  had  lov 
ed — the  beautiful  infant  that  I  had  gazed  upon 
with  delight — I  said  in  my  bitterness,  "  I  have 
seen  an  end  of  all  perfection  ;"  and  I  laid  my 
mouth  in  the  dust. 


THE  ROSE. 


1  SAW  a  rose  perfect  in  beauty  5  it  rested 
gracefully  upon  its  stalk,  and  its  perfume  filled 
the  air.  Many  stopped  to  gaze  upon  it,  many 
bowed  to  taste  its  fragrance,  and  the  owner  hung 
over  it  with  delight.  I  past  by  again,  and  behold, 
it  was  gone — its  stem  was  leafless — its  root  had 
withered  j  the  enclosure  which  surrounded  it  was 
broken  down.  The  spoiler  had  been  there  ;  he 
saw  that  many  admired  it — he  knew  it  was  dear 
to  him  who  planted  it,  and  beside  it  he  had  no 
other  plant  to  love.  Yet  he  snatched  it  secretly 
from  the  hand  that  cherished  it ;  he  wore  it  on 
his  bosom  till  it  hung  its  head  and  faded,  and 


when  he  saw  that  its  glory  was  departed,  he  cast 
it  rudely  away.  But  it  left  a  thorn  in  his  bosom, 
and  vainly  did  he  seek  to  extract  it,  for  now  it 
pierces  the  spoiler,  even  in  his  hour  of  mirth. 
And  when  I  saw  that  no  man,  who  had  loved  the 
beauty  of  the  rose,  gathered  again  its  scattered 
leaves,  or  bound  up  the  stalk  which  the  hand  of  vi 
olence  had  broken,  I  looked  earnestly  at  the  spot 
where  it  grew,  and  my  soul  received  instruction. 
And  I  said,  let  her  who  is  full  of  beauty  and  ad 
miration,  sitting  like  the  queen  of  flowers  in  ma 
jesty  among  the  daughters  of  women,  let  her 
watch  lest  vanity  enter  her  heart,  beguiling  her 
to  rest  proudly  upon  her  own  strength  ;  let  her 
remember  she  standeth  upon  slippery  places, 
-*<  and  be  not  high  minded,  but  fear." 


POETICAL  PIECES. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  PART  OF  THE  BOOK 
OF  AMOS. 


I  FROM  no  princely  stock  or  lineage  came, 
My  father  bore  no  prophet's  honour'd  name, 
Nor  fame,  nor  power  upheld  his  humble  lot, 
Nor  wealth,  nor  splendour  dcck'd  my  native  cot : 
A  shepherd's  garment  clad  my  youthful  form, 
Made  rough  by  toil,  and  harden'd  to  the  storm  ; 
I  led  o'er  hills  and  dales,  wild  streams  and  rocks, 
The  wand'ring  footsteps  of  my  herds  and  flocks* 
I  pointed  where  beneath  the  furrow  sprung 
The  first,  soft  herbage,  delicate  and  young ; 
I  led  them  where  the  munn'ring  waters  wound 
Their  fruitful  course,  along  the  moisten'd  ground  j 
And  when  the  noontide  sun  with  fervent  heat, 
Upon  their  drooping  heads  too  fiercely  beat, 
I  guided  where  the  mountain's  shelt'ring  heads 
17 


Its  sable  shade  across  the  landscape  spread ; 
And  while  they  sunk  in  rest  and  slumbers  meek, 
I  wander' d  forth  my  simple  meal  to  seek  $ 
The  juicy  wild  fig,  and  the  chrystal  tide, 
My  strength  renew'd,   and  nature's  wants  sup- 
ply'd. 

And  then,  when  evening  slowly  drew  her  shade, 
And  on  the  dewy  lawn  my  flocks  were  laid, 
Wrapt  in  my  mantle  from  the  chilling  wind, 
I  gave  to  holy  thoughts  my  wakeful  mind  : 
The  stars  that  in  their  mystic  circles  move, 
The  sparkling  blue  of  the  high  arch  above, 
The  pomp  of  night,  her  slow  majestic  power, 
The  solemn  silence  of  her  midnight  hour, 
The  gentle  softness  of  the  unveil'd  moon, 
All  seem'd  to  speak  of  Him,  the  Everlasting  One. 

From  solemn  musing,  heavenly  visions  stole, 
With  sleep's  soft  footstep  on  my  thoughtful  soul, 
Till  in  the  purpled  east,  the  morning  star 
Departing,  wak'd  ine  to  my  daily  care. 
Once  as  I  rose  from  slumbers  soft  and  sweet, 
And  found  my  lambs  reposing  at  my  feet, 
And  saw  the  morning  light  the  hills  invest, 
Gleam  o'er  the  forests,  gild  the  mountain's  breast, 
Dart  on  the  sparkling  streams,  and  shoot  its  way 
Through  the  dark  vales  where  slumb'ring  vapors 

lay, 
It  seem'd  within  uiy  breast  a  light  there  shone. 


183 


More  clear  and  splendid  than  the  rising  sun, 
And  while  my  every  nerve  with  rapture  thrill'd, 
A  Power  Supreme  my  soul  in  silence  held. 

Prone  on  the  earth  my  bending  knees  I  bow'd, 
My  rais'd  eyes  fixing  on  a  crimson  cloud, 
Which  from  its  cleaving  arch  this  mandate  hore, 
"  Go,  shepherd,   lead  thy  much  lov'd  flock  no 

more." 

My  trembling  lips  now  prest  the  soil  I  trod, 
"  Shepherd  !  forsake  thy  flock,    and  he  the  Seei1 

of  God." 

Uprising  at  the  heavenly  call,  I  laid 
My  crook  and  scrip  beneath  the  spreading  shade, 
"  I  go,  I  go,  my  God,"  my  answering  spirit  said. 

Through  the  rough  stream  I  dash'd,  whose  foam 
ing  tide 

Came  whit'ning  from  the  mountain's  hoary  side  : 
O'er  rocks  I  bounded,  thro'  dark  forests  ran, 
To  seek  the  busy  haunts  of  guilty  man. 
Yet  pressing  on  my  path,  I  heard  with  pain 
The  echoing  footsteps  of  a  distant  train ; 
I  saw  my  snowy  lambs  approaching  near, 
And  wondering  at  their  master's  bold  career  ; 
With  gentle  look,  and  piteous  moans  they  stood. 
To  ask  of  me  their  guidance  and  their  food. 

A  moment  pausing  in  my  anxious  race, 

I  dash'd  the  gathering  tear-drop  from  my  face. 


184 


For  as  I  look'd  upon  my  fleecy  pride, 

[  thought  who  now  their  wandering  steps  should 

guide  5 

But  still  within  the  holy  impulse  burn'd, 
And  soon  its  answering  thoughts  my  heart  return'd  *. 
•"'  My  tender  lambs,  my  unfed  flock,  adieu, 
My  God,  a  shepherd  will  provide,  for  you  ; 
One  kind  as  I  have  been  $  whose  care  shall  guide 
You,  where  fresh  pastures  smile,  and  fountain  s 

glide : 

A  hand  unseen,  a  voice  and  purpose  true, 
Divide  you  from  my  charge,  and  me  from  you.v 

And  who  shall  hesitate  when  God  commands  ? 
Whether  to  foreign  climes,  or  heathen  lands, 
His  messenger  he  sends,  who  feels  with  pain, 
Nature's  strong  bands  his  summon'd  step  detain  ! 
But  woe  to  him  if  bands  like  these  control 
The  heavenly  purpose  planted  in  his  soul, 
If  glittering  stores,  or  scenes  in  childhood  trod, 
Or  joys  of  home,  or  ties  of  kindred  blood, 
Shall  draw  his  wavering  heart,  more  than  the  call 

of  God. 

What  tho*  my  shepherd's  coat,  and  rustic  ways, 
111  suit  the  prophet's  venerable  grace  ; 
What  tho'  the  charge  I  bring  be  dark  with  fear, 
And  sound  but  harshly  on  the  guilty  ear ; 
What  though  my  heart  its  last  red  drop  shall 

drain, 
And  I  must  slumber  with  the  prophets  slain $ 


185 


Yet  He,  who  summon'd  from  that  distant  rock, 
The  rough-clad  man  to  leave  his  fleecy  flock, 
With  strength  will   gird  him,  for   his  wants  pro 
vide, 

And  hush  the  clamors  of  the  sons  of  pride, 
Or  from  these  climes  where  fears   and  dangers 

roll, 
Receive  to  endless  rest  the  weary  martyr'd  soul. 

Untir'd  and  undismayed  my  way  I  led, 

Where   proud   Samaria's  outstretch'd   ramparts 

spread  ; 

Yet  long  before  I  pass'd  its  outer  gate, 
I  saw  the  work  of  judgment  and  of  fate. 
It  seem'cl  a  fearful  desert  scorch'd  and  dry, 
Spread  its  brown  heath,  to  meet  the  wondering 

eye; 

The  vanished  verdure,  and  the  wasted  plain, 
Disclos'd  the  inarch  of  a  devouring  train, 
Before  whose  face  the  earth  was  green  and  fair, 
Behind  a  wilderness  all  parch'd  and  bare  ; 
The  pining  herds,  a  poor  and  piteous  train, 
Sought  their  accustom'd  food,  but  sought  in  vain'. 
Some  wild  with  anguish  rang'd  the  mountain's 

side, 

Some  stood  despairing  in  the  meadows  wide ; 
And  some  with  wasted  flesh,  and  panting  breath, 
Sunk  gazing,  mute  and  motionless  in  death. 

#17 


18G 


And  when  I  saw,  my  soul  with  grief  was  cleft. 
For  sinfal  man,  to  Heaven's  displeasure  left ; 
And  low  to  earth,  I  bent  my  mournful  head, 
Like  one  who  mourns  his  dearest  comfort  dead. 
«  My  God  !  I  cry'd,  my  God !  arise  and  see 
Thy  judgments,  and  thy  people's  misery ; 
The  sick  land  mourns,  the  haughty  sinners  pine, 
Thy  wrath  devours  without,  and  guilt  within. 
Ah  !  who  shall  now  their  wasted  strength  repair, 
If  thou  hast  cast  them,  ever  from  thy  care  ?'? 

An  answering  voice  was  heard — it  spake  to  me ; 
God  spake  from  Heav'n — "  This  judgment  shall 

not  he." 

I  rose  with  transport  from  my  deep  distress, 
And  as  I  journey'd  on,  his  name  did  bless. 

Soon  nature's  languid  form,  reviving  fair, 
Sang  praises  to  the  God  who  answers  prayer ; 
The  host  of  worms,  that  cover'd  all  the  ground, 
Vanish'd  away,  no  longer  to  be  found  ; 
Spread  forth  each  curling  leaf,   and  withering 

stem, 

The  faded  bud  disclos'd  its  secret  gem  ; 
The  naked  earth  her  vivid  robes  assum'd, 
\nd  fragrant  scents  the  summer  gales  perfum'd. 

But  yet  a  little  while  the  glittering  blade, 

Of  Heavn's  displeasure,  in  its  sheath  was  stay'd, 

\  flame  succeeds?  its  furious  ravage  spread, 


187 


By  wrath  first  kindled,  and  by  justice  fed  : 

So  wide  it  rag'd,  that  scarce  its  quenchless  sweep, 

Would  heed  the  limits  of  the  watry  deep. 

Ah  !  who  shall  stay  its  force,  or  crush  its  power  ? 
Our  God — preserve  us  in  this  awful  hour ! 
Again  I  pray'd,  and  wept,  and  deeply  mourn'd : 
"  This  also  shall  not  he,"  the  same  dread  voice 

return'd. 

Repent — Repent !  ye  rebel  race  !  I  cry'd ; 
Go,  mourn,  and  seek  your  God,  ye  sons  of  pride ; 
At  that  dread  name,  with  fearful  rev'rence  bend, 
Ye  sinful  seed  of  Abraham,  his  friend. 

Ye  scorn  the  stranger,  on  the  poor  ye  press, 
Ye  wound  the  widow,  and  the  fatherless, 
Ye  scoff  at  justice,  every  sin  ye  know, 
And  give  to  idols,  what  to  God  ye  owe  ; 
Scorn  and  contempt,  upon  his  laws  ye  cast, 
And  think  ye  to  escape  his  righteous  wrath  at  last. 
Stain'd  with  your  guilt,  the  page  of  fate  unrolls. 
Its  crimson  lines  shall  enter  to  your  souls  ; 
Captivity  and  pain,  its  records  shew, 
Deep  lamentation,  mourning,  teal's,  and  woe. 

Your  palace  shakes  !  a  sword  in  life-blood  dy'd, 
Is  drawn  all  reeking  from  your  prince's  side : 
The  sounds  of  treason  clamour  in  the  air, 
Murder,  and  strife,  and  foul  revolt  are  there  : 


188 


Yet  woes  on  woes  shall  tread,  and  pity  weeps 
O'er  your  fall'n  city,  and  your  slaughtered  heaps. 

O  ye,  who  sink  in  couches,  soft  with  down, 
And  all  your  crimes  in  wine  and  music  drown, 
Who  wrest  the  garment  from  the  shiv'ring  poor, 
And  snatch  his  pittance,  to  increase  your  store ; 
You,  first  the  plagues  and  wants  of  war  shall  vex, 
The  captive  yoke  shall  hang  upon  your  necks, 
And  you  shall  groan  in  servitude  and  scorn, 
As  one  who  sorrows  o'er  his  dead  first-horn. 

0  sinful  nation  !  of  thy  God  accurst, 
Thy  glory  gone,  and  bending  to  the  dust  ; 
The  arm  that  held  thee  in  its  fond  embrace, 
Shall  hurl  thee  forth,  to  thine  appointed  place. 

Go,  hide  thee  in  Mount  Carmel — dive  the  deep  ; 
Go,  seek  the  slimy  cells,  where  serpents  creep, 
Make  thro'  the  earth's  dark  dens,  thy  secret  path, 
Thou  canst  not  shun  the  purpose  of  his  wrath  ! 
"  But  who  art  thou  ?"  The  haughty  ones  reply'd, 
"  Presumptuous  man !"  with  frantic  rage,  they 

cry'd, 
'•'  Flee  to  your  woods,  your  mountains,  and  your 

flocks, 

Go,  drive  your  few  sheep  on  the  ragged  rocks ; 
Who  bade  thee,  herdman,  leave  thy  wand'ring 

throng  ? 
Who  made  thee  judge  of  violence  and  wrong  ?5> 


189 


**  ~He  who  beheld  me  at  my  humble  toil, 
Content  and  cheerful,  in  my  native  soil ; 
He  who  perceives  you,  from  the  frowning  skies. 
And  all  your  rage  and  impotence  defies  ; 
He  calPd  me  from  my  flock  and  pastures  fair, 
lie  gave  the  message  which  I  boldly  bear  ; 
And  which  I  bear  'till  death  :  so  spend  your  ire, 
And  wreak  what  vengeance  your  mad  souls  de 
sire. 

Say,  whose  strong  arm  compos'd  this  wond'rous 

frame  ? 

Who  quench'd  the  fury  of  the  rushing  flame  ? 
Who  fill'd  with  spacious  orbs,  the  empty  space  ? 
Who  made  the  mighty  sun  to  know  his  place  ? 
Who  hung  upon  the  cloud  the  dazzling  bow  ? 
Who  from  his  cistern,  bade  the  waters  flow  ? 
Who  turneth  light  to  darkness,  night  to  death  ? 
Who  giveth  life,  and  gathereth  back  the  breath  ? 
Who  drives  thro'  realms  immense,  his  flaming 

car? 

To  visit  Orion,  and  the  morning  star  ? 
Who  gave  this  pond'rous  globe,  with  nicest  care, 
To  balance  lightly  on  the  fluid  air  ? 
Who  rais'd  the  mountains  to  their  lofty  height  ? 
Who  speeds  the  whirlwind  in  its  trackless  flight  ? 
Who  darts  thro'  dark  disguise,  his  piercing  ken, 
To  read  the  secret  thoughts  and  ways  of  men  ? 
Who  gave  the  morning  and  the  midnight  birth  ? 
Whose  muffled  step  affrights  the  trembling  earth  ? 


190 


Who  bound  the  sea,  and  touch'd  the  rocks  with 

flame  ? 

The  Lord,  the  God  of  Hosts,  is  his  tremendous 
*  Name." 


LINES, 


ON  hearing  a  venerable  friend  sing  at  midnight,  a  short 
time  previous  to  Jier  death,  in  consequence  of  the  de 
rangement  of  a  mind,  once  of  the  strongest  and  most 
amiable  character. 


'TWAS    when  drear  midnight  cast  its  shadows 

deep, 

A  distant  voice  awoke  me  from  my  sleep  ; 
First — slow  and  sad,  it  pour'd  a  mournful  tone, 
Lake  sighs  o'er  parted  bliss,  and  pleasures  gone  j 
Now  to  gay  hope,  the  mounting  notes  were  set, 
Rose  high  to  joy — then  sicken'd  to  regret, 
Now  wild,  like  mirth,  the  sprightly  numbers  flewr, 
Then,  shrill  and  piercing,  breath'd  a  last  adieu. 
This  was  the  voice  that,  when   with  causeless 

fears, 
Or  early  grief  o'er  flow'd  my  ready  tears, 


In  childhood's  dawn,  or  youth's  delusive  day, 
Would  sooth  that  grief  and  charm  those  tears 

away. 

This  was  the  voice  that  lull'd  the  ear  of  pain, 
Made  penury  and  anguish  smile  again  ; 
Soft  as  the  dew,  that  heals  the  broken  plant, 
Pour'd  its  mild  accents  on  the  soul  of  want  ; 
Bade  pale  regret  its  wild  complainings  cease, 
And  lur'd  the  wanderer  to  the  fold  of  peace. 

Now  like  a  harp,  whose  tuneful  chords  unstrung, 
Is  on  the  damp  and  drooping  willow  hung, 
It  gave  in  echoes  to  the  fitful  wind, 
The  mournful  music  of  a  hroken  mind. 

Yet  as   the  hird,   whose  sweet  and    dirge-like 

strains, 

With  harmony  unwonted  fill  the  plains, 
Who  by  some  presage  warn'd  of  fate's  decree, 
Pours  her  soft  tones  in  dying  melody  ;* 
So  on  my  ear,  that  midnight  music  fell, 
As  from  the  death-tow'r,  sounds  the  long  and  last 

farewell. 

While  faint  and  low  the  closing  murmur  sigh'd, 
And  on  the  car  of  niglit,  the  cadence  dy'd, 
The  boding  spirit  sunk,  with  woe  distrest, 
And  down  the  check,  the  floods  of  sorrow  prest : 

*  The  Swan. 


192 


At  last  my  closing  eye  forgot  to  \veep, 
And  o'er  it  past  the  viewless  wand  of  sleep. 

Dark  visions  came,  all  broken  and  distrest, 
Uncalled,  unsought,  the  enemies  of  rest ; 
Such  as  wild  fever  draws  in  fearful  guise, 
Before  the  restless  mourner's  half-clos'd  eyes. 

Strange  forms  were  seen  of  more  than  mortal 

birth, 

And  hollow  voices  whisper*  d  from  the  earth  ; 
Wild  storms  arose,  contending  billows  dash'd, 
And  thro*  the  gloom,  a  sudden  lustre  flash'd  ; 
When  lo,  a  silver  lamp,  whose  stately  spire, 
All  bright  and  vivid,  glow'd  with  heavenly  fire, 
Cast  its  pure  light  o'er  streams,  that  murmur  low, 
Gleam'd  on  the  mountains,  cheer'd  the  vale  of 

woe ; 

But  as  I  gaz'd,  the  beam  afar  was  borne, 
The  spire  was  quench'd,  the  silver  lamp  was  gone. 

Then  sable  waters  rose  with  angry  sweep, 

A  lonely  vessel  founders  on  the  deep  ; 

\\  hile  thunders  peal,  and  livid  lightnings  gleara^ 

And  troubled  spectres  glar'd  upon  the  dream. 

Then  rose  a  Gothic  dome,  with  arch  sublime, 
W  hose  lofty  towr's  withstood  the  shocks  of  time, 
Its  spacious  halls  receiv'd  the  welcome  guest, 
Tho*  sick,  or  weak,  or  famish'd  or  distrest ; 


193 


While  from  its  windows  gleam'd  a  steady  ray. 
To  light  the  traveller  on  his  lonely  way. 
But  thundering  from  below,  a  viewless  shock 
Heaves  the  strong  base,  and  rends  the  marble  rock : 
Quick  from  its  cope  the  sunward  beam  declined, 
Thro*  its  long  arches  shriek'd  the  hollow  wind  : 
The  pond'rous  columns  on  the  earth  were  thrown. 
The  trembling  earth  return'd  a  hollow  moan  j 
Sad  o'er  the  spot  a  mournful  cypress  hung, 
The  long  grass  wavM,  and  mossy  hillocks  sprung. 

Yet,  round  a  mouldering  arch,  a  lonely  form 
Twin'd  a  damp  wreath  that  trembled  in  the  storm, 
BreathM  o'er  its  leaves,  the  sighs  of  gratitude, 
And  with  fond  tears  the  drooping  flowers  bedew'd. 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

If'Iiose  correspondence  had  been  interrupted  by  domestic 
occupations,  and  the  various  cares  of  a  matron. 


THUS  ancient  matrons,  high  in  virtue  rais'd, 
Whom  princes  honoured,  and  whom  sages  prais'd. 
18 


194 


Like  you,  the  needle's  various  labours  taught. 
And  in  the  loom,  and  at  the  distaff  wrought ; 
Hence,  spoils  of  industry  adorn'd  their  home, 
And  with  new  lustre  glow'd  the  arts  of  Rome. 

\h  !  sweeter  far,  o'er  such  a  charge  to  bend, 
To  calm  domestic  life,  a  joy  to  lend, 
Than  cloth'd  in  royal  robes,  the  guise  of  pain. 
To  wield  a  sceptre  o'er  the  shrinking  train  j 
Toss  on  the  wave  of  pow'r,  or  dictate  proud. 
Or  rule  the  fancies  of  a  fickle  crowd  ; 
Or  pass  in  fields  of  blood  the  deathful  day, 
Urge  on  the  battle,  point  the  fierce  array, 
Drive  over  fallen  ranks  the  reeking  car, 
Rage,  toil,  and  revel  mid  the  din  of  war ; 
Renounce  each  female  grace,  each  soft  intent, 
To  snatch  the  prize,  that  nature  never  meant, 
To  win  a  short  applause,  to  build  a  name, 
To  grasp  the  fleeting  shade  of  sullied  fame ; 
Gleam  o'er  the  historic  page,  as  meteors  move, 
To  claim  our  wonder,  not  awake  our  love. 

Oh,  sweeter  far,  in  shades  obscure  to  hide, 
Where  meek  content,  and  piety  reside, 
Where  heaven-born  virtue  sheds  a  lucid  ray, 
And  intellectual  joys  inspire  the  day, 
While  o'er  the  scene  no  waves  of  discord  roll. 
To  quench  the  light  of  mercy  in  the  soul. 

And  sweet  like  thee,  dear  friend,  with  pensive  eyes, 


195 


To  watch  the  plants  of  reason  as  they  rise  j 
Hang  o'er  your  clusters,  like  the  bending  vine, 
And  teach  the  infant  tendril  where  to  twine  ; 
Guard  from  the  mildew's  taint,  the  frost  severe. 
Repel  the  noxious  weed  that  ventures  near  ; 
Lead  the  young  leaves  to  lift  their  drooping  heads. 
And  drink  the  purest  dew,  that  evening  sheds  : 
Curb  the  aspiring  shoots  that  mount  too  high, 
Lest  in  the  blast  the  forward  hope  should  die ; 
To  turn  the  clear  stream  to  the  spreading  root. 
Catch  the  first  promise  of  a  grateful  fruit ; 
Bind  the  young  buds^  whose  stalks  the  winds  have 

riven, 
Vnd  prune  the  boughs,  and  point  their  way  to 

heaven. 

But  who  can  paint  the  thrill  of  extacy, 
With  which  a  mother  meets  her  babes  on  high  ? 
Perchance  the  tempest's  rage,  with  furious  strife.. 
Had  driven  them  darkly  o'er  the  sea  of  life  ; 
Perchance  the  shafts  of  death,  that  ceaseless  rove. 
Had  early  pierc'd  the  brittle  band  of  love  ; 
Perchance  the   wide-stretchM  zone,    or   OceaH 

waves, 

Had  roll'd  between  their  long-divided  graves  ; 
Now  safely  scap'd  from  earth's  delusive  shore, 
Now  join'd  in  glory  to  divide  no  more, 
What  mortal  hand  can  touch  that  raptur'd  string. 
Whose  high-raisM  tones  salute  th'  Eternal  King  ? 


196 


"Lo !  these  are  they  whom  tliou  to  me  didst  trust, 
These  souls  immortal,  then  enshrin'd  in  dust ; 
I  took  them  trembling-,  at  thy  high  decree, 
Receive,  instruct,  and  render  back  to  me." 
Thoughtful  I  strove  with  mild  affection's  sway, 
To  blend  with  reason's  dawn,  religious  ray  ; 
To  smooth  the  path  of  duty,  lure  the  course 
Of  those  fair  streams  up  to  their  parent  source  ; 
By  night,  my  w^aking  thoughts  on  these  were  bent, 
By  day,  to  thee,  the  fervent  prayer  was  sent, 
That  the  bright  star  of  heaven  might  light  their 

eyes, 

And  e'vn  in  youth  their  waywrard  hearts  be  wise ; 
But  vain  had  been  the  anxious,  watchful  care, 
In  vain  the  ceaseless,  fond  maternal  prayer, 
Had  not  a  viewless  power  with  love  divine, 
Matured  the  wTork,  and  crown'd  the  great  design. 


ON  A  SLEEPING  INFANT. 


O  CHILD  of  innocence  and  bliss, 
And  gentle  mirth,  and  joy  benign, 


Fond  friendship's  wish,  affection's  kiss. 
And  warm  solicitude  are  thine. 

If  ever  from  yon  vaulted  sky, 
Angelic  hosts  .to  earth  descend, 

On  thee  they  sure  would  cast  an  eve. 
And  o'er  thine  infant  slumbers  bend. 

For  no  dark  deeds  of  guilt  or  shame. 

Of  falsehood,  arrogance,  or  strife. 
Of  cruel  pride,  or  cold  disdain, 

Have  ever  mark'd  thy  spotless  life. 

1,  stopping  in  the  giddy  maze 

Of  youth,  to  catch  a  smile  from  thee. 

And  pleas'd  to  look  upon  the  days 
Of  careless,  guiltless  infancy  ; 

Perceive  as  with  a  vision'd  eye, 

The  throngs  of  care,  and  woe,  and  dread, 
Which  pressing  on  in  sable  dye, 

Are  hovering  round  thy  cradle  bed. 

Sternly,  impatiently  they  wait, 

The  time  when  thou  shalt  be  their  prey, 
For  well  they  know  this  peaceful  state 

Excludes  their  proud  and  bitter  sway. 

Could  she,  who  with  a  mother's  love, 
hy  pliant  form  has  just  embrac'd, 

*18 


198 

But  see  the  woes  that  thou  must  prove, 
'    The  bitterness  which  thou  shalt  taste ; 

The  nameless  pangs  thine  heart  must  know. 
The  anguish  that  will  fright  thy  sleep, 

Her  smile  would  sicken  into  woe, 
And  she  would  seek  alone  to  weep. 

0  thou,  who  thus  the  eye  hast  veil'd, 
The  book  of  fate  so  slowly  given, 

1  thank  thee,  that  thou  hast  conceal'd 

From  man  the  prescience  of  heaven. 

Ah,  when  upon  thy  troubled  soul, 
The  ills  of  life  shall  closely  press, 

May  resignation's  meek  control, 
Allay  the  tumult  of  distress. 

ijfior  often  in  affliction's  school, 

Though  the  sad  heart  perceives  it  not. 

Virtue  is  gain'd,  and  wisdom's  rule, 
That  never,  never  is  forgot. 

When  o'er  thy  fading  joys  declin'd, 
The  sounding  waves  of  sorrow  roll, 

Perchance,  thou  then  that  hope  may'st  find. 
Which  proves  an  anchor  to  the  soul. 

Or  should  the  friends  whom  thou  shalt  love, 
Thy  fond  and  fearless  heart  deceive, 


199 

* 

Thou  still  may'st  find  a  friend  above, 
Who  never  will  forsake  or  grieve. 

O  child  of  innocence  and  bliss, 
And  gentle  mirth,  and  joy  benign, 

Fond  friendship's  wish,  affection's  kiss, 
And  warm  solicitude  are  thine. 


THE  CARELESS  HEART. 


SAT,  can'st  thou  tell  me  what  is  like  the  heart, 
That  cold  and  careless  ne'er  performs  its  part  ? 

A  garden,  left  neglected,  waste,  and  bare, 
Where  light  the  wandering  people  of  the  air, 
To  catch  the  scattered  seed  that  moulders  there. 


-200 


ON  THE   CHARACTER  OF  A  VENERA 
BLE  FRIEND. 


OH,  could  my  humble  page  one  feature  save, 
Of  that  dear  friend  who  moulders  in  the  grave, 
Or  through  one  soul  a  generous  love  diffuse 
Of  her  pure  virtues,  her  exalted  views, 
Or  to  one  heart  a  thought  of  goodness  give, 
Then  not  in  vain  this  humble  page  should  live. 

And  Oh,  that  I,  who  saw  her  here  below, 

Who  knew  those  deeds  the  world  could  never 

know, 

Her  inward  peace,  amid  affliction's  rage, 
Her  meek  and  graceful  dignity  of  age, 
Her  quickly  feeling  heart,  her  moisten'd  eye, 
When  pain  was  heard  to  mourn,  and  want  to  sigh, 
Her  tenderness  for  youth,  her  alms  for  woe, 
Her  hand  in  secret  stretching  to  bestow, 
Her  liberal  views,  her  self-instructed  mind, 
Active  and  strong,  with  seraph  goodness  joinM  : 
Who  saw  the  path  her  lonely  footstep  trod, 
Not  chosen  by  the  world,  tho*  mark'd  by  God  : 
Who  saw  her  tending  down  the  vale  of  time, 
With  thoughtful  energy,  with  hope  sublime  : 


201 


Who  saw  her  sinking  in  her  last  repose, 
Saw  her  lovM  life  receive  its  gentle  close ; 
Oh,  might  I  with  this  image  in  my  eye, 
But  learn  like  her  to  live,  like  her  to  die  ; 
Or  though  a  narrower  sphere  to  me  is  given, 
Still  in  that  sphere  be  emulous  of  heaven  ; 
Oh,  might  I  from  her  fond  monitions  learn, 
To  heed  my  last,  my  infinite  concern ; 
Then  not  in  vain  her  life,  her  lessons  free, 
Then  not  in  vain  will  be  her  death  to  me ; 
And  when  with  torturM  nerve,   and  labouring 

breath, 

I  pant  upon  the  icy  couch  of  death  $ 
Then  peace  shall  beam  upon  my  darkenM  eyes, 
And  hope  within  my  fainting  heart  arise, 
That  she  I  lov'd  on  earth,   may  meet  me  in  the 

skies. 


THE  SOLITARY  STAR. 


PURE  planet,  whose  propitious  ray 
Illumes  the  darkness  of  my  way  ; 


202 

0  gentle  Star,  whose  light  is  thrown 
O'er  the  sad  path  I  trace  alone  : 
Have  all  thy  sisters  gone  to  rest, 
That  thou  alone  with  golden  crest, 
And  wrapt  within  thy  mantle  white, 
Should  softly  gleam  upon  my  sight  ? 
For  as  a  friend  thou  seem'st  to  guide 
My  steps,  and  journey  by  my  side. 

To  view  me  with  a  mournful  eye, 
To  veil  thy  face  as  if  to  sigh, 
Then  meekly  bending  down  thine  ear 
The  accent  of  my  woes  to  hear. 

O  mild  effulgence  of  the  sky, 

Whose  gentle  beams  of  heavenly  light. 
Soft  float  in  liquid  splendour  by  ; 

And  pour  upon  the  rapturM  sight. 

Ray  of  that  ray,  which  heav'n  pervades. 
Light  of  that  light,  which  never  fades  ; 
Still  deign  to  guide  me  as  a  friend, 
And  when  my  earthly  wanderings  end, 
When  death  shall  close  my  swimming  eyes. 
May  mercy's  peaceful  star  arise, 
And  point  me  to  that  heavenly  shore, 
Where  I  shall  need  thy  light  no  more. 


203 


AN  EMBLEM. 


I'VE  seen  a  drop  of  morning  dew, 
Like  some  fair  gem  serene, 

That  sparkled  on  a  verdant  bough 
All  clad  in  summer  green. 

The  rising  sun  absorb'd  the  tear, 
And  drank  it  as  it  shone  ; 

The  winds  of  winter  cleft  the  bough, 
It  moulder'd  and  was  gone. 

The  drop  of  dew  is  like  the  bloom 
And  morning  of  our  span  : 

The  bough  that  withered  in  the 
Is  like  the  life  of  man. 


THE  CONFIDENCE  OF  ALEXANDER. 


«  HOWcan'stthou  sleep  O  King!  devoid  of  fear, 
"  When  dangers  thicken,  and  when  foes  are  near  ? 


204 


«  How  can'st  tl^ou  sleep  ?  They  throng  around 

thy  rest, 
"  And  scarce  the  arrow  stays  that  wounds  thy 

breast." 

"  And  what  think'st  thou  can  harm  my  helpless 

head  ? 
"  My  friend  Parmenio  watches  near  my  bed." 

But  thou,  0  Christian,  hast  a  firmer  friend, 
Who  near  thy  steps,  and  o'er  thy  couch  does  bend  ; 
So  rise  securely,  and  securely  sleep, 
For  ever  at  thy  side,  that  watchful  guard  shall 
keep. 


THE  VANITY  OF  LIFE. 


AS  waves  the  grass  upon  the  earth  to  day, 
Which  soon  the  wasting  scythe  shall  sweep  away  $ 
As  smiles  the  flow'ret  in  the  verdant  field, 
Which  soon  before  the  passing  blast  shall  yield  ; 
So  flourish  we  upon  our  beds  of  clay, 
So  grow  a  while*  so  droop,  and  so  decay. 


205 


Dust  turns  to  dust,  with  ashes,  ashes  blend. 
But  upward,  upward  let  the  soul  ascend  j 
To  God  who  gave  it,  let  the  spirit  go, 
While  the  frail  form  returns  to  earth  below. 
A  few  may  sigh  upon  the  grave's  cold  brink, 
A  few  salt  tears  the  broken  soil  may  drink, 
A  few  sad  hearts  in  agony  may  bleed, 
And  pay  that  tribute,  which  they  soon  shall  need. 

While  these  frail  honours  wait  the  mould' ring  dust. 
Say,  smiles  the  spirit  with  the  kindred  just  ? 
Shine  its  pure  garments  in  the  white  rob'd  train  ? 
Or  sound  its  groans  amid  the  realms  of  pain  ? 
Ah,  who  can  tell  ?     The  cause  is  God's  alone, 
Hereafter  thou  shalt  see,  and  bless  that  dark  un 
known. 


PARTING. 


FEW  friends  have  we  on  earth,  and  when  they 

part, 

The  nerve  unwinds  whose  tension  tears  the  heart  5 
And  the  wan  brow  all  blanch'd  with  sorrow,  turns  : 
Cold,  sunk,  and  pallid  as  the  clay  it  mourns. 
19 


206 


THE  MIDNIGHT  PRAYER  OF  CHRIST. 


COME,  see  the   mountain  where  thy  Saviour 

knelt, 

The  sad,  lone  place  where  he  his  vigils  kept; 
Come,  feel  the  midnight  blast,  his  bosom  felt, 
The  cold  night-chills,  that  o'er  his  temples  crept, 
While  guilty,  stupid  man  all  heedless  slept ; 
And  far  away  his  friends  forgetful  rove  ; 
And  cans't  thou  say  for  me  he  wakM  and  wept. 
For  me  he  agoniz'd,  and  pray'd,  and  strove ; 
Nor  feel  one  pang  of  pity,  or  one  thrill  of  love  ? 


ON  HEARING  A  BELL  TOLL  BEFORE 
RISING. 


SAD  sounding  bell !  to  me  thou  seem'st  to  say, 
Awake,  thou  sleeper,  rise,  and  come  away  ; 


207 


For  while  thou  slumberest  on  thy  couch  of  rest, 
The  hand  of  death  within  thy  sphere  has  prest ; 
And  one,  whose  piercing  glance  thou  us'd  to  meet, 
Whose  step  was  active,  and  whose  voice  was 

sweet, 

Has  tasted  pain,  has  deeply  drank  of  woe, 
Has  struggled  strongly  with  the  frowning  foe, 
Has  passed  the  portal  arch,  whose  massy  door, 
Once  turning  on  its  hinge,  shall  turn  no  more  j 
Has  trod  the  darkly  silent  vale,  and  gone 
A  trembling  stranger,  to  a  world  unknown. 

Nought  that  she  lov*d  on  earth  could  bribe  her 

stay, 

No  friend  could  go  to  cheer  her  on  her  wray ; 
No  wealth,  to  purchase  welcome  could  she  bear, 
Nor  even  her  worth,  could  buy  a  ransom  there ; 
No  pompous  titles  sounded  as  she  came, 
No  earthly  honours  swell'd  the  blast  of  fame  : 
What  then,  alas  !  has  the  lone  stranger  brought  ? 
Nought  but  the  spotless  robe,  by  her  Redeemer 

wrought. 


•208 


THEY  ROVE  FOREVER. 

LINES  written  on  reading  a  line  of  Dr.' Young's,  cfe- 
srribing  the  motion  and  order  of  the  planetary  bodies. 

"  They  rove  forever,  -mthout  error  rove." 

WE  too  rove  ever  ;  first  with  infant  dream, 
We  hang  like  insects  o'er  a  summer  stream  ; 
With  childish  step  midst  opening  sweets  we  rove,, 
Sooth'd  and  applauded  by  the  voice  of  love  ; 
Then   high  with  youth,  we  rush  o'er  painted 

lawns, 

Half  hidden  flowers,  and  still  more  hidden  thorns  : 
Mature,  we  wander  on  in  paths  of  care, 
And  mute,  and  sad,  our  various  burdens  bear ; 
Ev'n  too,  in  age  we  rove ;  with  spirit  bent, 
Tho'  light  be  dim,  and  nature's  force  be  spent : 
But  rove  we  without  error,  as  we  go  ? 
Here  pity  sighs,  and  truth  must  answer,  JVo. 


209 


TRIBUTE  TO  AN  INSTRUCTOR. 


AS  wlicn  an  eye,  accustom'd  to  survey 
The  changeful  aspect  of  an  April  day, 
Turns  hack  regretful  to  the  early  dawn, 
And  the  fair  smile  that  dew'd  the  face  of  morn ; 
So  I,  from  youth's  delusions,  wild  and  vain, 
Its  hoasted  pleasures,  and  its  mingled  pain, 
Look  hack  to  childhood's  fair,  and  pictured,  scenes 
again. 

And  most  I  love  those  soft  and  blended  shades, 
Where  youth  just  glimmers,  and  where  childhood 

fades, 

On  which  fond  memory  sheds  a  lustre,  more 
Than  hope,  or  fancy,  on  the  future  pour. 

Oh,  deem  it  not  intrusive,  vain,  or  free, 
That  this  weak  lay  should  pour  itself  to  thee, 
Rcver'd  instructor,  for  before  mine  eyes, 
Thine  image  in  those  vision'd  scenes  will  rise ; 
And  memory  hastening  as  with  filial  love, 
Would  wreath  its  brow  with  garlands  she  has 
wore. 

What  most  I  prize,  I  first  received  from  thee  ; 
Knowledge  till  then  had  shewn  few  charms  for  me, 
*19 


For  often  bad  cold  rigour  harshly  doomed, 
The  huds  of  promise  withering  e'er  they  bloom'd. 
And  glanc'd  with  stern  regard  a  chilling  eye, 
Upon  a  mind  that  shrunk  it  knew  not  why. 
And  thou  alone  didst  guide  a  timorous  mind, 
Wise  as  a  teacher,  as  a  parent  kind  ; 
With  careful  hand  its  wayward  course  withheld, 
Allured,  not  forc'd,  encouraged,  not  compelled ; 
The  shrinking  eye  lookM  up,  the  soul  was  cheered, 
Felt  as  it  learnt,  confided  e'er  it  fear'd  ; 
And  first  by  emulation's  ardour  mov'd, 
Prest  onward  in  the  path  which  soon  it  lov'd. 
Those  intellectual  joys  by  thee  were  shown, 
Which  charm  when  youth's  light  giddiness  is 

gone, 
And  haply  but  for  thee,  ah,  never  had  I  known. 

A  plant  of  feeble  stem  thou  would'st  not  break, 
Or  bruise  its  buds  because  their  bloom  was  weak,. 
Or  blight  it  with  a  cold  and  cheerless  shade, 
Or  scorn  it,  tho'  it  rose  from  lowly  bed. 
But  propt  its  humble  stalk  with  kindest  care, 
Rais'd  its  wan  buds  to  feel  a  fresher  air, 
And  o'er  its  narrow  leaves  and  bending  head* 
The  dews  of  knowledge  and  of  virtue  shed. 
Gave  to  its  shrinking  root  a  firmer  soil, 
Though  its  scant  foliage  scarce  repaid  the  toil  j 
And  now  of  stature  frail,  and  low  degree, 
More  rude  and  worthless,  than  it  ought  to  be. 
It  turns  to  him  who  first  its  soil  renew'd. 


211 


It  lifts  to  him  its  buds,  and  blossoms  crude. 
And  loads  the  passing  gale  with  gratitude. 

Yet  more  than  what  I  speak,  to  thee  I  owe, 
And  blessings,  more  than  strains  so  weak  can  show. 
Thy  warning  voice  allurM  my  erring  youth, 
To  seek  the  path  of  piety  and  truth ; 
And  heaven's  first  hopes,  as  early  sun-beams  roll, 
DawnM  from  thy  prayers  upon  my  anxious  soul. 

Scorn  not  the  muse  who  comes  in  rustic  dress, 
These  thanks  sincere  and  artless  to  express, 
And  breathe  her  wishes  for  thy  happiness. 
Around  thy  house  may  guardian  angels  bend, 
Thy  slumbers  watch,  thy  wakeful  hours  defend  : 
And  her  whom  gentle  fate  has  led  to  twine 
Her  earthly  hopes  and  destinies  with  thine, 
And  all  who  claim  thy  labour  or  thy  care, 
Thy  daily  study,  and  thy  nightly  prayer, 
Still  to  thy  hopes  be  true,  and  in  thy  blessings 
share. 

Oh,  ever  free  from  doubt,  and  pain,  and  strife, 
Flow  on  the  current  of  thy  tranquil  life  ! 
Pure  as  the  dew-drop  on  the  flow'ret's  heads, 
The  youthful  spring  in  rich  profusion  sheds  j 
Bright  as  the  star  whose  crescent  gilds  the  dawn, 
And  marks  the  foot-steps  of  the  glowing  morn  ; 
Blest  in  those  .joys  which  hearts  like  thine  may 
prove, 


212 


The  kind  returns  of  tenderness  and  love ; 
Firm  in  those  hopes  that  heal  the  wounds  of  woe. 
Which  hearts  at  peace  with  God  alone  can  know  : 
High  in  that  holy  charge  so  wisely  given, 
To  lead  an  earthly  flock  the  way  to  heaven. 

So  may'st  thou  live,  'till  honours  more  divine, 
More  perfect  peace,  more  lasting  joys  are  thine  ,* 
'Till  from  a  lofty  and  a  cloudless  sphere, 
Shall  burst  those  sounds,  too  sweet  for  mortal  ear, 
"  Come,  good  and  faithful  servant,  thy  reward  is 
here.19 


ON   SEEING   THE   MOON  ATTENDED  BY  A 
SOLITARY  STAR,  JUST  BEFORE  SUN-RISE. 


LEAVING  the  cell  of  her  companion,  night, 
She  sought  her  bow'r  which  vestal  lamps  adorn, 
But  paus'd,  and  stay'd,  and  lingei-M  in  her  flight. 
To  change  stol'n  glances  with  the  youthful  morn. 

All  unattended  too.  she  chose  to  tread, 
Save  that  one  solitary  star  was  seen, 


218 

Darkly  to  wrap  a  mantle  o'er  its  head, 
And  page  the  mystic  footsteps  of  the  queen. 

Her  veil  was  all  undrawn,  her  eye  was  fair, 
But  ah  !  her  cheek  grew  pale,  her  lustre  dim ; 
For  dark-rob'd  night,  high-seated  on  his  car, 
Was  heard  to  call  the  wanderer  on  with  hirn. 

Sternly  he  staid  his  chariot  'till  she  came, 
His  cold  eye  glancing  on  her,  unapprov'd, 
The  star  attendant  glow'd  with  angry  shame, 
And  rising  morn  beheld  her  as  she  mov'd. 


POPE. 

'« CURST  be  the  verse,  how  well  so  e'er  it  flow, 
"  That  tends  to  make  one  honest  man  my  foe, 
"  Give  virtue,  scandal  $  innocence,  a  fear ; 
•<  Or  from  the  soft-ey'd  virgin  steal  a  tear." 

Too  well  may  be  applied  to  this  fine   writer,  the  following' 
imitation. 

SHAME  to  the  man  !  how  well  so  e'er  he  write, 
Who  mingles  fair  with  foul,  and  wrong  with  right $ 
Gives  pain  to  virtue,  spotted  robes  to  truth, 
And  crimsons  o'er  the  bashful  cheek  of  youth. 


214 


RAPIDITY  OF  TIME. 


EV'N  while  we  pause,  the  rapid  date 

Of  life  comes  rushing  on, 
The  sad  heart  feels  the  stroke  of  fate, 

We  tremble  and  are  gone  : 

Gone  and  forgot,  the  mourning  eye 

May  moisten  as  we  sleep ; 
But  time  shall  sooth  the  rushing  sigh, 

And  dry  the  eyes  that  weep. 

A  little  mound  of  turf,  alone 

Shall  shade  our  senseless  breast ; 
The  clay-cold  sod,  the  burial  stone, 
Made  dark  with  storms,  with  moss  overgrown. 
Shall  mark  our  place  of  rest. 


TO  A  FRIEND,  WITH  A  PACKET  OF  GE 
RANIUM  LEAVES. 


'TIS  said  by  Cynics  harsh  and  stern, 
The  sweets  of  life  are  frail  and  few ; 

But  is  not  gentle  friendship  one, 
That  we  around  our  paths  may  strew  ? 

It  surely  is  :  I  therefore  send, 
An  emblem  of  its  sweets  to  you. 


TWILIGHT. 


I  SAW,  ere  the  landscape  had  faded  in  night, 
The  slow-moving  twilight  with  gesture  sublime, 

As  I  pensively  watch'd  the  decline  of  the  light, 
And  listened,  absorbed  to  the  foot-fall  of  time. 

And  I  said  to  my  heart,  as  it  rose  in  my  breast, 
"  What  wakes  thee  to  sorrow,  what  moves  thee 
to  mourn  ?M 


216 


And  my  heart  answered  quick,  with  emotion  op- 

prest, 
"  I  grieve  for  the  hours,  that  must  never  return.5' 

In  the  pale  hand  of  twilight,  a  tablet  appeared, 
Though  veil'd  in  her  mantle,  and  muffled  with 
shade  ; 

That  this  had  recorded  my  errors  I  fear*d, 
And  I  knew  that  its  traces  were  never  to  fade. 


EVENING  EXAMINATION. 


AND  now  let  sahle  night  assert  her  power, 
And  summon  back  the  late  departed  hour, 
And  call  the  pausing  soul  with  care  to  trace 
The  lines  that  mark  its  half  averted  face. 

The  frown  of  pride,  or  semblance  of  content, 
The  deed  of  duty  done,  or  time  mispent, 
The  meek  resolve,  firm  hope,  or  wandering  bold. 
The  vain  desire,  or  cherish'd,  or  controlled. 


217 


Eye  fixM  on  heaven,  or  page  with  error  stain'd, 
Does  memory  smile,  or  is  thy  conscience  pain'd  ? 

Of  all  thy  wanderings,  view  the  vast  amount : 
This  is  the  emblem  of  thy  last  account. 


THE  PARTING  FRIEND. 


FAIR  on  the  bosom  of  the  Spring, 

The  trembling  flow'ret  glows, 
But  passing  storms  are  on  the  wing 

To  chill  it  ere  it  blows. 
Yet  though  beneath  the  verdant  spray, 

The  dew-drops  seek  to  hide, 
Before  the  sun's  meridian  ray, 

Those  glittering  gems  are  dried. 

And  such  has  been  our  transient  glance, 

As  sweet,  as  quickly  flown, 
A  smile,  a  word,  a  friendly  wish. 

And  all  is  clos'd  and  gone  : 


But  while  in  scenes  of  distant  joy, 
You  rove  with  footstep  free, 

Soft  to  your  heart,  this  simple  strain 
Shall  say,  "  remember  me." 

Perhaps  we  part,  no  more  to  meet, 

And  who,  my  friend,  can  show 
What  scenes  of  sorrow,  or  of  joy, 

Await  us  here  helow  ? 
Though  life  to  us  is  in  its  morn, 

And  youthful  pleasures  court, 
Its  fairest  rose  conceals  a  thorn, 

Its  longest  space  is  short. 

But  Oh  !  there  is  a  hetter  state, 

Where  hopes  unfading  bloom, 
There  is  a  brighter  land  that  gleams 

Across  the  darken'd  tomb. 
There  may  we  meet,  in  that  blest  home. 

Where  none  shall  sigh  with  pain, 
Where  hours  of  parting  never  come. 

Nor  human  frailties  stain. 


219 


THE  BIRTH  DAY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY,  WHO 
HAD  RECENTLY  LOST  HER  MOTHER. 


THIS  op'ning  year,  this  rising  day, 
Of  pensive  thought,  and  grateful  joy, 

Might  well  for  you  awake  the  lay, 
And  still  a  better  lay  employ. 

Could  I  but  pour  the  strain  of  praise, 
That  sighs  so  soft  on  beauty's  ear. 

The  tribute  due  to  wit,  and  grace, 
How  justly  were  they  offer'd  here. 

But  no,  a  rude,  unpolished  strain, 
Presumes  the  mental  charm  to  trace. 

And  mark  how  virtue's  youthful  train 
May  fill  a  parent's  vacant  place. 

Mark  how  around  thai  urn  they  glide, 
"With  beams  like  morning  radiance  clear 

That  urn  which  drank  the  recent  tide 
Of  sad  affection's  filial  tear. 

To  you,  those  younger  plants  shall  spread. 
As  round  their  fair  maternal  stem. 


£20 

To  you,  shall  raise  the  blooming  head. 
And  ope  the  fair,  unfolding  gem. 

May  each  its  future  path  explore, 

Like  those  pure  streams  which  gently  lave. 
Unchecked,  unstain'd,  some  verdant  shore, 

And  join  in  peace  their  parent  wave. 


THE  LONGEST  DAY. 


FROM  us,  if  every  fleeting  hour 

Improvement's  boon  may  ask, 
Surely  the  longest  day  may  clabn 

A  long,  and  arduous  task. 
But  since  the  longest  day  must  end, 

The  fairest  life  decay, 
Let  wisdom's  hand,  and  wisdom's  voice, 

Direct  our  youthful  way. 

And  when  we  rise,  let  morning's  eye 

Convey  the  lesson  sweet, 
And  e're  we  sleep,  let  evening's  sigh. 

The  sacred  rule  repeat : 


Patient  to  render  good  to  all, 
Within  our  bounded  sphere, 

The  active  deed,  or  grateful  wish,. 
Or  sympathetic  tear. 

To  raise  the  heart  to  Him,  who  gives 

Our  path  with  hope  to  shine, 
Meekly  receive  the  offer'd  joy, 

And  silently  resign ; 
To  let  no  fear  disturb  the  breast, 

No  doubt  obscure  our  sky, 
Since  virtue  cannot  live  unblest, 

Or  unrewarded  die. 


SOFT  fall  upon  that  closing  eye, 
The  taper's  trembling  rays, 

While  sweetly  o'er  thy  peaceful  brow, 
The  smile  of  slumber  plays. 

May  guardian  seraphs'  snowy  wings 
Still  o'er  thy  couch  be  spread, 

*20 


And  ever  may  their  viewless  shield 

Protect  and  guard  thy  head  ; 
'Till  thou  within  a  purer  sphere, 

Shalt  soar  with  those  who  watch'd  thee  here. 


PARAPHRASE  ON  CLEOPATRA'S  ADVICE  TO 
MARK  ANTHONY  WHEN  ANGLING. 


"  FIX  not  thine  eyes  upon  that  shallow  brook, 
"  Nor  lure  the  silly  fishes  to  thy  hook, 
«  Let  cities,  thrones,  and  empires  be  thine  aim, 
«  And  like  a  Roman  get  thyself  a  name." 

Fix  not  thy  hopes  upon  an  airy  dream, 
Nor  lose  thy  short  line  in  this  troubled  stream ; 
But  seek  the  nobler  prize  to  virtue  given, 
And  like  a  Christian  fix  thine  eye  on  Heaven. 


223 


IMPROVEMENT  OF  SCIPIO'S  BOAST. 


"  I  HAVE  no  soldier  that  would  count  his  life 
"  Too  dear  should  I  require  it  at  his  hand  ; 

"  He  the  rough  surge  would  brave — the  battle's 

strife, 
"  Or  from  the  high  rock  leap  at  my  command." 

This  was  the  boast  of  Scipio — -Christian — hear  ! 

Thou  hast  a  chieftain  of  more  equal  laws, 
Count  not  thine  case,  or  thine  existence  dear, 

If  thou  may'st  win  at  last  His  great  applause. 


THE    REPLY    OF  THE    PHILOSOPHER 
ANAXARCHUS. 


IN  ancient  times  a  tyrant's  wrath  decreed, 
The  hated  wise  man  by  his  arts  to  bleed. 
He,  while  the  murd'rous  blows  with  rage  were 
dealt, 


224 


Spake  thus  serene  as  if  no  pain  he  felt, 

"  Ye  bruise  the  shell,  the  wither' d  husk  ye  break. 

Ye  sink  the  boat,  but  me  ye  cannot  shake," 

Oh !  fear  not  them  whose  hand  may  pierce  the 

heart, 

And  cannot  harm  the  never-dying  part : 
But  fear  ye  Him  who  rends  the  clay-built  cell, 
And  dooms  the  spirit  to  the  pains  of  hell. 


ANTISTHENES. 


THE    HEPLT    OP   THE    PHILOSOPHER    ANTI3THE2TES    TO    THE    EJfQ.ri- 
BY    'WHAT    HE    HAD    GAIXED    BT    HIS    LEAHXIJfG. 


"  IT  makes  me  happy  in  my  lone  retreat, 
"  And  with  my  heart  it  gives  me  converse  sweet 
«  And  why  should  he  be  much  inclined  to  roam, 
"  Who  finds  a  better  banquet  still  at  home  ?" 

And  those  may  say,  who  by  their  Saviour  blest, 
Bear  heavenly  science  planted  in  their  breast, 


"  This  in  my  slumber  guards  my  helpless  head, 
And  when  I  wake  it  cheers  me  on  my  hed, 
And  when  I  walk  it  rises  for  my  guest, 
And  when  I  speak  it  answers  in  my  breast, 
It  soothes  my  sorrows,  guides  me  when  I  roam. 
And  when  I  die  it  gently  leads  me  home." 


APPLICATION  OF  THE  ROMAN  PRECEPT, 

"  Take  heed — Cato  sees  you." 


THE  Roman  teachers  said — "  Beware  of  silt, 
Injustice  to  thy  friend,  or  guilt  within, 
See  that  ye  break  not  our  most  just  decrees  $ 
Take  heed  to  what  ye  do,  for  Cato  sees." 

And  Oh  !  were  they  who  bow'd  to  flesh  and  blood, 
More  wise  than  we  who  serve  the  living  God  ? 
Forgetful  Christian  !  learn  like  them  to  fear, 
Not  because  Cato  sees,  but  God  is  near. 


226 


THE  SECLUSION  OF  BASIL. 


THE  good  man  mourird  that  sin  pursu'd  him 

still, 

That  while  he  lov*d  the  good  he  chose  the  ill ; 
A  kindling  anger  at  his  follies  burn'd, 
And  sadly  from  the  world  his  steps  he  turn'd ; 
The  pathless  desert,  brown  and  barren,  sought, 
And  gave  himself  to  prayer  and  holy  thought. 
But  still  he  wept  and  sigh'd — "  I  fled  from  sin, 
And  sinful  man,  and  lo  !  it  lurks  within  ! 
I  from  the  world  and  all  its  snares  did  part, 
But  ah  !  the  tempter  lingers  in  my  heart." 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  OF  MAY. 


MAY  !  I  hail  thy  first-born  morning, 
Every  charm  its  brow  adorning, 
Zephyrs  sporting,  music  waking, 
Streams  their  icy  fetters  breaking, 


227 

Hope  expanding,  joy  reviving, 
Nature  in  her  beauty  living. 

Let  my  heart  accordant  raise 
Purest  incense,  grateful  praise  j 
Let  my  voice  with  accent  free 
Swell  the  song  of  harmony. 

Let  me  quit  this  idle  chime, 
Wooing  numbers  into  rhyme, 
Sorting  words,  and  killing  time. 
Inward  let  mine  eye-beams  glide 
View  my  thoughts'  uneven  tide, 
Roving,  wandering  far  and  wide 

Deeds  on  little  purpose  bent, 
Faithless  to  the  good  intent, 
Time  on  trifles  vainly  spent, 
Deeply  mourn,  be  wise — repent. 


228 


EVENING  REFLECTION. 


ALONE  I  sit,  but  yet  no  pensive  sigh, 
Of  discontent,  or  loneliness  is  here  j 

For  solitude  has  shed  her  purest  joy, 

Ana  barr'd  the  entrance  of  unhallow'd  care. 

And  from  her  cell,  comes  forth  with  shrouded  head, 
The  veil'd  moon  shrinking  from  the  gazer's  sight ; 

As  if  some  unseen  hand  her  steps  had  led, 
Silent  and  slow  to  meet  the  waiting  night. 

And  aged  night,  clad  in  his  best  attire, 

Seems  to  compose  his  brow  tho'  late  so  stern, 

To  copy  youth,  to  bid  his  frowns  retire, 
And  let  his  starry  eyes  with  lustre  burn. 

O  Planet !  hide  not  thus  thy  silver  ray, 
Lift  up  thy  veil,  and  let  thy  smile  be  seen, 

Till  silent  night  confess  thy  magic  sway, 
And  every  bright  star  own  thee  as  a  queen. 

Yet  more  effulgent  than  thy  brightest  beam, 
And  warmer  than  the  cold  star's  distant  ray, 

May  Mercy's  light  upon  my  spirit  stream, 
When  she  from  earth  shall  wing  her  unknown 
way. 


229 


H  Y  M  N. 


GOD  spake — and  Chaos  heard  his  voice, 

And  nature  rose  from  sleep, 
And  lo,  this  firm  and  solid  earth 

Sprang  from  the  liquid  deep. 

He  spake — and  light's  transparent  ray 

Silver'd  each  sparkling  \vave  ; 
He  spake — and  twilight  led  the  day, 

To  Ocean's  silent  cave  : 

And  darkness  rais'd  his  giant  size, 

Deep  frowning  in  his  might, 
While  thousand,  thousand  starry  eyes 

Look'd  from  the  cell  of  night. 

The  day-star  and  the  trembling  moru 

Seem'd  hand  in  hand  to  move, 
While  morning  matins  tun'd  the  harps 

Of  Seraphim  above. 

The  earth  with  herbs,  and  plants,  and  flow'rs;. 

Luxuriantly  was  drest  j 
And  herds,  and  flocks,  were  seen  to  move.. 

Upon  her  verdant  breast : 

21 


I 


230 

And  Ocean  spread  his  glassy  wave, 

And  peopled  was  the  flood  ; 
\nd  high  upon  the  pathless  air, 

The  wing'd  musicians  rode. 

But  more  to  swell  the  song  of  joy, 
And  fill  the  boundless  plan, 

Clad  in  the  robe  of  innocence, 
Forth  walk'd  majestic  man. 

Oh,  had  he  lov'd  the  God,  that  stamp'd 

His  image  on  the  clay, 
\nd  had  he  kept  his  gentle  law, 

How  fair  had  been  his  way  ! 

Cut  whirling  in  a  thoughtless  course, 

Ingloriously  he  fell, 
And  sadly  does  my  song  forbear, 

That  mournful  fall  to  tell. 

For  as  a  stream  whose  restless  wave 
Forsakes  its  parent  source, 

Ungrateful  man  has  found  his  way. 
Embitter'd  with  remorse. 


231 


VICTORY. 


WAFT  not  to  me  the  blast  of  fame, 
That  swells  the  trump  of  victory. 

For  to  my  ear  it  gives  the  name 
Of  slaughter,  and  of  misery. 

Boast  not  so  much  of  honour's  sword, 
Wave  not  so  high  the  victor's  plume  ; 

They  point  me  to  the  bosom  goar'd, 

They  point  me  to  the  blood-stain'd  tomb. 

The  boastful  shout,  the  revel  loud, 

That  strive  to  drown  the  voice  of  pain, 

What  are  they  but  the  fickle  crowd 
Rejoicing  o'er  their  brethren  slain  ? 

And  ah,  through  glory's  fading  blaze, 

I  see  the  cottage  taper,  pale, 
Which  sheds  its  faint  and  feeble  rays, 

Where  unprotected  orphans  wail  : 

Where  the  sad  widow  weeping  stands, 
As  if  her  day  of  hope  was  done  : 

Where  the  wild  mother  clasps  her  hands. 
And  asks  the  victor  for  her  son  : 


•     232 

Where  the  lone  maid  in  secret  sighs 
O'er  the  lost  solace  of  her  heart^ 

As  prostrate,  in  despair,  she  lies, 
And  feels  her  tortur'd  life  depart : 

Where  midst  that  desolated  land, 
The  sire  lamenting  o'er  his  son. 

Extends  his  weak  and  powerless  hand* 
And  finds  its  only  prop  is  gone. 

See,  how  the  bands  of  war  and  woe 
Have  rifled  sweet  domestic  bliss  : 

And  tell  me  if  your  laurels  grow, 
And  flourish  in  a  soil  like  this  ? 


THE  FIRST  WINTRY  MORNING. 


AWAKE  !  and  let  the  grateful  lay 
With  joy  to  Heaven's  high  palace  rise. 

Before  the  bright,  rejoicing  day 
Returns  to  light  the  glowing  skies  : 


^33 

Before  the  throng  shall  leave  their  beds, 
Their  various  labours  to  pursue ; 

Before  the  smoke,  aspiring  spreads 
Its  curling  volumes  light  and  blue. 

The  flowers  that  in  their  sweetness  rose, 
The  mountain's  bosom  to  adorn, 

Now  hide  their  meek  and  drooping  brows. 
Before  the  stern  and  wintry  morn. 

The  plants  that  once  with  joy  elate, 
Now  shrink  before  the  wintry  gloom, 

Remind  my  spirit  of  the  state, 
To  which  must  haste  our  youthful  bloom. 

But  when  these  charms,  so  bright  and  frail, 
Shall  shrink,  and  wither,  and  decay, 

Say,  is  there  nought  to  countervail 
The  good  that  time  shall  take  away  ? 

There  is  a  joy  that  lights  the  eye, 

When  beauty,  youth,  and  strength  are  past, 
When  all  our  earthly  pleasures  fly, 

Like  leaves  before  the  wintry  blast. 

There  is  a  joy  that  checks  the  throng 
Of  chilling  cares,  and  sorrow's  shock, 

That  strikes  its  anchor,  deep  and  strong, 
In  Heaven's  imperishable  rock. 


234 

Grant  me  this  joy,  and  when  my  soul 
Her  farewell  to  the  world  shall  sigh  ; 

When  unknown  seas  heneath  me  roll, 
And  lift  their  deathful  billows  high ; 

Then  when  my  frail  and  fainting  sight, 
To  this  receding  world  is  dim, 

The  lustre  of  my  Saviour's  light 

Shall  brightly  mark  my  way  to  Him. 


TO  A  FRIEND,  ON  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  HER  MARRIAGE. 


YOU  say,  that  life  to  you  has  been 

A  mixM  and  chequerM  dream, 
That  hours,  and  days,  and  years  have  flown, 

As  rapid  as  a  stream. 

You  tell  me  that  your  youthful  prime 

Like  morning  shadows  past, 
That  every  year  of  fleeting  time 

Grew  shorter  till  the  last. 


235 

You  tell  me  that  those  days  of  dread, 
That  fill  the  heart  with  pain, 

Will  be  remember'd  like  the  shade, 
That  ne'er  returns  again. 

But  if  a  more  extended  space, 
Than  I  on  earth  have  known, 

Should  leave  so  light,  so  faint  a  trace 
As  scarcely  to  be  shown  j 

Oh,  what  is  life  ?  Let  wisdom  meek 

Return  the  slow  reply, 
Say,  what  is  life  ?  To  move,  to  speak. 

To  look  around — and  die. 


THE  RAINBOW. 


THE  glowing  arch,   that  crowns   the   passing 

storm, 

And  sooths  the  angry  thunders  as  they  rise. 
Lifts  o'er  the  watry  cloud  its  lovely  form, 


£36 


And  sheds  its  glory  o'er  the  bending  skies, 
With  radiance  caught  from  Heaven,  hut  quick  re 
ceding  dies. 

The  eye  that  loves  to  view  its  dazzling  rays, 
And  rove  with  rapture  o'er  its  melting  grades, 
And  glad  prolong  its  unahating  gaze, 
Yet  strives  in  vain  to  mark  the  varying  shades, 
Where  one  soft  tint  begins,  and  where  a  softer 
fades. 

So  shines  the  path  of  virtue,  bright  and  fair, 
With  gentle  traces,  and  soft  blending  lines, 
Her  train  of  duties  scarcely  shewing  where, 
One  woos  the  soul,  or  one  her  charge  resigns, 
Till  in  a  stream  of  light,  the  finish'd  glory  shines. 


THOUGHTS  ON  CHILDHOOD. 


STILL  roves  the  mind  among  the  varied  scenes 
Of  former  days ;  and  pausing  as  she  treads 
Their  chequer'd  paths,  she  seems  to  hear  a  sound 


237 


Like  Ossian's  music,  pleasant  to  the  ear, 
And  mournful  to  the  soul.     It  is  the  voice 
Of  days  departed,  and  I  seem  to  hear 
Their  chiding  spirit  borne  upon  the  blast. 
May  I  escape  the  pale  and  gliding  ghosts 
Of  mispent  hours  ;  be  shielded  from  their  glance 
Dark  and  terrific  ;  rather  may  I  hear 
The  plaintive  murmurs  of  those  hours  of  woe 
Long  past,  but  not  forgotten.     They  are  like 
The  troubled  sighing  of  the  eastern  gale, 
Passing  o'er  broken  ruins.     But  a  breath, 
Sweet  as  the  sigh  of  morn,  mild  as  the  breeze 
That  sweeps  the  harp  of  Eolus,  meets  my  ear. 
Days  of  my  childhood,  is  not  this  thy  voice 
So  changeful  and  so  sweet  ?     Ah  !  well  I  know 
That  doubtful  melody  :  it  sooths  my  soul. 

I  see  the  pictur'd  hours,  I  see  the  shades 
Of  infancy  and  mental  darkness  pass, 
As  I  have  seen  the  night's  dim  shadows  fleet. 
Forth  steps  the  morning  on  the  misty  hills, 
Trembling  and  unconfirmed  ;  and  the  dim  lamp 
Of  reason,  scarcely  lighted,  aids  her  dawn. 
While  slowly  on  a  dark  mysterious  world 
Enters  a  stranger,  but  of  little  note 
Save  to  the  eye  of  fond  parental  love. 

0  Spirit,  universal  and  unseen  ! 
Prompting  the  heart  of  man  to  kindest  deeds 
Of  care,  forbearance,  or  anxiety, 


238 


Teaching  the  eye  to  flow,  the  heart  to  beat. 
The  knee  that  never  bent  to  bend  in  prayer  : 
Kind  nurse  of  life,  how  much  we  owe  thy  pow'r! 
To  thee  we  owe  it,  that  our  feeble  race, 
More  helpless  than  the  brutes,  are  not  like  them 
Suffered  to  perish.     'Tis  thy  secret  hand 
That  lifts  the  young  mind  like  some  sickly  plant 
To  see  the  light,  to  taste  the  dews  of  heaven, 
To  feel  the  sun-beams,  shielding  its  soft  leaves 
From  chill  unkindness,  that  dire  frost  of  life  ; 
Propping  its  stalk,  and  cherishing  its  buds  ; 
Leading  the  fragrant  waters  to  its  root, 
And  taking  thence  the  noxious  weeds,  that  seek 
To  drink  its  moisture,  withering  every  hope. 

0  pure  affection  !  waken'd  with  the  sigh 
Of  infancy — still  wheresoe'er  I  go 
Cheer  my  lone  spirit,  and  Oh,  suffer  not 
My  numerous  errors  to  abate  thy  glow, 
Warmer  than  friendship,  and  more  fix'd  than  love. 


**.-***#**#*• 

THE  CREATION. 

BEING  tfie  first  number  selected  as  a  specimen  of  a 
series  of  pieces  on  scripture  subjects,  intended  for 
the  use  of  young  people. 

WHEN  night    and   Chaos  reign'd  with  awful 

sway, 

And  o'er  the  unform'd  earth  thick  darkness  lay, 
The  Almighty  voice  awoke  the  kindling  strife. 
And  call'd  the  dormant  elements  to  life. 

"  Let  there  be  light ;"  a  sudden  ray  there  came, 
Like  ether,  pure,  and  piercing  as  the  flame ; 
"  Let  day  arise  ;"  a  blush  of  purple  flowM  ; 
The   young  dawn   trembled,    and   the  morning 

glow'd ; 

"  Let  night  divide  the  empire  of  tlie  day," 
And  frowning  darkness  claim'd  his  ancient  sway. 

Then  like  an  arch  the  azure  skies  were  rear'd, 
The  seas  were  gather'd,  and  the  earth  appealed ; 
Clad  with  fresh  flowers,  and  plants  of  gentle  root, 
Herb  yielding  seed,  and  tree  presenting  fruit. 

Then,  where  the  curving  skies  the  Ocean  prest, 
The  Sun,  all  glowing,  darted  from  his  rest ; 


240 


Pale  cast  the  moon  her  first,  and  timid  glance, 
And  the  stars  sparkled  o'er  the  blue  expanse. 

Mild  Ocean's  waves  with  scaly  silver  glow'd, 
Birds  soarM  in  air,  and  hover'd  o'er  the  flood ; 
Above,  around,  the  tones  of  rapture  sigh'd, 
"  Live,  and  rejoice,"  the  forming  God  reply'd, 
"  Sport  on  the  cloud,  and  thro*  the  waters  glide." 

Next,  rising  slow,  a  mix'd  and  varied  birth, 
Unnumbcr'd  beasts  came  roving  o'er  the  earth, 
They  crept,  they  sported  wild,  they  stalk'd  with 

pride, 

Or  cropt  the  grass,  or  drank  the  limpid  tide ; 
Some,  with  aw'd  gaze,  the  wondrous  scene  sur 
vey 'd, 
And  some  slept  fearless,  in  the  cooling  shade. 

Serene,  the  great  Creator  clos'd  his  plan, 

And  stamp'd  his  image  on  the  form  of  man  ; 

Gave  life  and  motion  to  a  mass  of  clay, 

Eye  speaking  thought,  and  brow  denoting  sway, 

Reason  to  judge,  and  majesty  to  awe, 

Sole  monarch,  holding  sway  o'er  all  he  saw. 

Last,  came  a  female  form,  more  soft  and  fair, 
And  Eden  smil'd  to  see  the  stranger  there. 

Then  tones  of  joy,  from  harps  seraphic  rung. 
The  stars  of  Morning  in  their  courses  sung, 


241 


Earth  echo'd  back  the  shout  of  grateful  love, 
From  hill  and  valley,  cavern,  stream  and  grove  3 
Man  fill'd  with  praise  in  silent  rapture  stood, 
God  bow'd  to  view  his  work,  and  God  pronounc'd 
it  good. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


SAY,  hast  thou  seen  a  trembling  plant, 
Of  feeble  bloom,  and  lowly  birth, 

Which  every  passing  blast  might  bend, 
In  sadness  to  its  mother  earth ; 

'Till  some  kind  hand  would  pierce  the  shade, 
That  hid  it  from  the  cheering  sky  ? 

Thine  is  that  gentle  culturing  hand  : 
The  weak  and  trembling  plant  am  I. 

And  while  that  plant  of  life  shall  taste, 
And  press  this  low  and  earthly  spot, 

The  hand  that  rearM  it  from  the  waste. 
Shall  never,  never,  be  forgot ! 


VLTUMNAL  SCENE. 


TO  a  friend,  in  whose  company  the  author  had  untness- 
edafine  autumnal  evening  exhibition  of  clouds,  from 
the  bridge  on  Connecticut  River,  at  Hartford. 


WHILE  faded  nature  meekly  bends, 
To  wear  the  robe  that  Autumn  lends, 
How  sweet  her  varying  scenes  to  trace, 
Her  changeful  and  retiring  grace  ; 
While  from  the  bridge  that  arches  high, 
The  alter'd  landscape  meets  the  eye  ! 
The  leafless  trees,  by  winds  distrest, 
The  shore,  with  lingering  verdure  drest, 
The  passing  sails  that  slowly  glide, 
The  river's  deep,  majestic  tide, 
Which  rolling  on,  with  gathered  force 
From  northern  climes,  in  torrents  hoarse, 
Here  spreads  a  mirror,  smooth  and  free, 
And  seeks  in  haste  the  expecting  sea. 

And  then  that  bold,  aspiring  tow'r, 
Like  chieftain  rising  in  his  pow'r, 
Whose  graceful  form,  and  brow  sublime, 
Overlooks  the  crowd,  and  smiles  at  time  ; 
Where  gleam  the  city's  fair  retreats, 


243 

Her  thronging  roofs,  and  busy  streets, 
Where  wealth,  with  active  labour  meets  ; 
Her  distant  groves,  her  lofty  domes, 
Her  holy  spires,  and  cottage  homes. 
And  then,  beyond,  a  distant  scene 
Of  cultur'd  vales,  extending  far, 
All  clad  in  Autumn's  latest  green, 
And  shelter'd  from  the  storm  of  war. 

And  lo,  upon  the  western  sky, 
What  glowing  scenes  attract  the  eye, 
Where  wildly  spreads  in  bright  array 
The  pageantry  of  closing  day  ; 
Whose  azure  eye  with  frequent  glance 
Looks  gaily  through  the  wide  expanse, 
To  greet  the  clouds  that  throng  to  pay 
Their  homage  to  her  gentle  sway. 
For  though  no  sounding  herald  calls 
To  warn  them  from  their  airy  halls, 
Yet  still  they  summon  all  their  pow'r. 
To  cheer  and  gild  the  festive  hour. 

Some  rob'd  in  white  with  snowy  breast. 
Look  from  the  windows  of  the  west, 
And  some,  to  join  the  mystic  dance, 
With  fair  and  glowing  brow,  advance  $ 
Float  sparkling  on,  retire,  or  roam, 
Like  trembling  lamp  on  Ocean's  foam ; 
While  mingling  in  their  sportive  race. 
And  flitting  light  from  place  to  place. 


244 

A  glittering  train  the  eye  may  trace. 
Like  champions  gay,  with  crimson  vest, 
And  golden  helm,  and  saffron  crest, 
Who  lift  the  lance  with  gesture  light. 
And  hasten  to  the  Woodless  fight. 

Then  rise  a  few,  in  purple  robe, 
Like  kings  to  rule  this  rolling  glohe, 
-In  solemn  state,  with  massy  shield, 
And  sceptre  all  in  shades  conceal'd  : 
But  close  involv'd  in  deeper  gloom, 
And  thick'ning,  gathering,  as  they  come., 
A  sable  train  with  aspect  dread, 
Like  warring  hosts  with  muffled  tread 
Approach,  and  cast  with  angry  sweep, 
Their  fearful  shadow  o'er  the  deep. 

Beneath  their  frown,  these  glories  fade. 
And  all  the  scene  is  wrapt  in  shade, 
For  aged  night,  with  envious  eye, 
Beheld  the  joyous  revelry, 
And  sent  that  veilM  and  hostile  train, 
To  shroud  it  with  the  hue  of  pain. 

But  gleaming  o'er  the  mountain's  breast, 
Just  where  its  summit  meets  the  west, 
A  little  spot  of  light  is  seen, 
All  fair,  and  tranquil,  and  serene ; 
So  pure,  that  no  rude  cloud  may  dare 
To  cast  its  slightest  image  there  : 


245 

So  bright,  as  if  its  veil  unfurl'd 
The  entrance  to  a  better  world. 

From  thence,  the  sun,  releasM  from  toil, 
Has  shed  his  soft,  departing  smile, 
And  glittering  through  a  dewy  tear, 
Fled  gladly  to  another  sphere. 

Perchance,  this  scene  with  beauty  fraught. 

Was  shewn  to  wake  suhlimer  thought ; 

Perchance,  was  spread  this  evening  sky, 

To  lure  the  fixM,  enrapturM  eye, 

To  trace  upon  its  varying  roll, 

An  emblem  of  the  virtuous  soul, 

Who  toiling  on,  through  blasts  of  strife. 

And  shades  of  woe,  and  storms  of  life, 

Perceives  a  mansion,  pure  and  blest, 

A  cloudless  sky,  a  ceil  of  rest, 

And  pressing  on,  where  sorrows  cease, 

Thus  sheds  the  parting  beam  of  peace. 

And  quick,  my  trembling  measure  takes 
The  wish  this  glowing  scene  awakes, 
Not  that  which  decks  the  polisliM  line, 
Where  art  and  melody  combine, 
But  from  a  heart  where  feeling  sighs, 
And  grateful  memory  lifts  her  eyrs, 
That  warm  and  ardent  wish  will  rise, 
That  such  a  cell  of  peace  divine, 
And  such  a  rest  in  Heaven  be  thine. 


246 


ON  THE  CONVENTION  AT  HARTFORD. 


DZCIMBEB  15th,  1814. 


SAY,  who  are  these  that  tread  the  darken'd  scene. 
With  cautious  step  and  deeply  thoughtful  air  ? 
No  crested  helmet  shades  their  lofty  mien, 
No  angry  dart,  or  warring  sword,  they  bear, 
And  though  their  glance  is  bold,  their  brows  are 
mark'd  with  care. 

Around  their  locks  a  half-form'd  wreath  is  thrown, 
Whose  fading  leaves,  the  deepning  gloom  increase, 
Twin'd  from  a  plant,  now  exil'd  and  unknown, 
For  whose  return  the  prayer  shall  never  cease, 
The  sacred  olive  fair,  that  marks  the  men  of  peace. 

Tho'  prompt  to  ward  the  near  impending  stroke, 
And  guard  of  freedom's  stream  the  vital  source, 
They  tempt  no  conflict,  no  revenge  provoke, 
But  meet  oppression  in  its  daring  course, 
With  wisdom's  ample  shield,  of  Heaven  attem- 
per*d  force. 

Ye  sages  firm  !  in  dark  and  troubled  times, 
To  you,  in  accents  sad,  your  country  sighs, 


247 


In  days  of  discord,  violence,  and  crimes, 
Her  guardians,  and  her  friends,  she  sees  you  rise, 
Like  ancient  heroes  bold,  as  humble  Christians 
wise. 

She  sees  no  party  views  your  aspects  shroud, 
No  rash  resolves  your  steady  course  pervert, 
And  points  you  high  above  the  arching  cloud, 
Where  round  the  throne  of  Him  who  knows  the 

heart, 
Bright  watchful  seraphs  stand,  and  mark  your 

arduous  part. 

Ye  sages  just !  the  record  of  these  days, 
Shall  beam  afar  beyond  your  last  abode, 
What  now  your  counsels,  or  your  hands,  shall 

raise, 

The  sword,  the  shield,  the  balance,  or  the  rod, 
Will  rise  before  your  souls  in  the  dread  day  of 

God. 

For  you  the  secret  prayer  to  Heaven  ascends, 
To  Heaven  for  you,  assembled  hosts  implore, 
When  to  the  earth  the  contrite  spirit  bends, 
Or  saints  the  tears  of  pure  devotion  pour, 
Your  names  escape  their  lips,  while  they  their 
God  adore. 


248 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  DESTRUCTION 
OF  THE  RICHMOND  THEATRE 


WHENCE  were  those  sounds  that  swept  upon 

the  gale, 

And  swell'd  with  echoes  strange  the  troubled  air  ? 
They  seem'd  like  sorrow's  agonizing  wail, 
The  shriek  of  woe,  the  moaning  of  despair. 

Where  is  that  lofty  pile  with  arches  long, 
And  ample  walls,  and  oft  frequented  door, 
Wliose  evening  tapers  lur'd  a  sprightly  throng, 
To  taste  the  pleasures  of  dramatic  lore  ? 

Oh,  spare  the  dread  recital !     Let  the  stones 
Which  the  still  glowing  embers  half  conceal, 
Those  blackened  ruins,  and  those  calcin'd  bones. 
The  truth,  that  mocks  the  aid  of  speech,  reveal. 

The  polish'd  hand,  the  heav'n  illumin'd  face, 
The  eye  that  spoke  the  feelings  of  the  soul, 
The  brow  of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace, 
Lie  scorch'd  and  shrivell'd,  like  a  parching  scroll. 

For  while  the  unfolding  plan,  the  changeful  part, 
With  hope,  or  fear,  alternate  mark'd  the  mien. 


249 

At  once  !  a  real  terror  fill'd  the  heart, 

And  bursting  flames  involved  the  mimic  scene. 

And  pressing  on,  where  sinking  columns  blaz'd, 
Through  folding  clouds  of  suffocating  smoke, 
And  rushing  o'er  the  fall'n,  with  breathless  haste. 
The  frenzied  croud,  in  wild  confusion  broke. 

The  speechless  father  like  a  maniac  mov'd, 
His  fainting  daughter  clasping  to  his  breast, 
The  youth  in  anguish  bore  the  maid  he  lov'd, 
But  death  and  agony  must  shade  the  rest. 

O  scene  of  horror  !     Night  of  deep  despair ! 
How  each  gay  prospect,  clad  in  fairest  light, 
Fades  at  the  storm  of  grief,  or  cloud  of  care, 
And  sinks  oblivious,  in  the  gloom  of  night ! 

O  bliss  of  earth  !     How  bright  and  insincere  j 
Unworthy  of  the  pains  we  all  bestow  ! 
The  proudest  hopes  that  deck  this  dazzling  sphere 
But  tempt  the  blast,  and  urge  the  darts  of  woe. 

Then  let  us  seek  the  joys  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  the  fierce  flame,  that  lights  the  day  of 

doom, 

And  melts  the  basis  of  the  solid  earth, 
May  purify,  but  never  can  consume. 


350 


WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  AN  ECLIPSE  OF 
THE  MOON. 


0  GENTLE  night's  resplendent  queen. 

Of  fair  and  placid  brow  ; 
Whither  has  fled  thy  smile  serene, 

And  where  thy  beauty  now  ? 

A  blackening  shade  deforms  thine  eye, 
A  curtain  dark  and  base  ; 

Sad  emblem  of  the  spots  that  dim 

* 

Our  own  imperfect  race. 

But,  Planet,  in  a  distant  sphere 
Where  some,  perchance,  may  gaze, 

Thy  visage  still  is  pure  and  clear, 
And  unobscur'd  thy  rays. 

And  thus  there  is  a  better  land, 
Remote  from  cloud  or  strife, 

Where  constant  virtue  shines  unstain'd. 
And  free  from  mists  of  life. 


251 


GENERAL  ST.   CLAIR. 


,  and  forgotten  by  his  Country,  poor  and 
in  obscurity,  on  one  of  the  Attegany  Mountains,  in 
1815,  icas  still  living  the  venerable  Patriot. 


DEEP  in  the  western  wild  a  mountain  rose, 
Its  base  was  green,  its  summit  white  with  snows, 
Its  shaggy  cliffs  were  brown  with  endless  shade, 
While  on  its  bosom  humid  vapours  play'd, 
And  the  soft  sun-beams  shunn'd  it— half  afraid. 

Its  cold,  slow  streams  without  a  murmur  crept, 
Or  bound  in  icy  bands  like  prisoners  slept, 
Save  where  the  headlong  cataract  would  dash 
Across  the  strong  roots  of  the  mountain  ash  ? 
And  sounding,  rending,  whirling  in  its  course, 
Pour  on  the  distant  vale  its  gather'd  force. 

And  tho*  a  summer  breeze  would  sometimes  sigh 
Among  the  trees  whose  branches  sought  the  sky, 
The  ruffian  winds  with  wild  and  jealous  sway 
Would  drive  the  trembling  stranger  far  away. 

And  here,  thought  I,  might  misery  reside, 
Siillen  regret,  or  disappointed  pride, 
Or  sick  seclusion  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 


252 

Or  mourning  frailty  seek  repose  at  last, 

Or  here  remorseful  agony  might  weep, 

Or  stern  misanthropy  her  vigils  keep, 

Or  in  these  midnight  cells  might  murder  wait, 

To  lure  the  thoughtless  traveller  to  his  fate, 

Or  men  like  fiends,  forever  lost  to  shame, 

Might  perpetrate  such  deeds  as  have  no  name. 

Yet  in  the  centre  of  this  fearful  wood, 

High  on  a  cliff  a  rustic  cahin  stood  ; 

It  seem'd  not  like  the  secret  haunt  of  guilt, 

"Where  groans  of  anguish  rise,  and  blood  is  spilts 

But  such  as  pining  want  would  not  refuse, 

And  what  unshelterM  poverty  might  choose. 

Forth  from  its  humble  door  unheeded  goes, 
A  man  of  many  years,  and  many  woes  ; 
His  eye  was  on  the  earth,  his  step  was  meek, 
The  mountain  winds  blew  coldly  on  his  cheek, 
And  on  his  mantle  thin  their  vengeance  seem'd 

to  wreak. 

He  brighter  paths,  and  better  days,  had  seen, 
And  high  in  honour's  envied  list  had  been  ; 
Yet  for  no  deed  of  wrong,  no  hateful  crime, 
Pass'd  he  in  solitude  his  exil'd  time  : 
Ah  no  !  if  doubts  like  these  within  thee  rise, 
Muse  on  his  brow,  and  then  those  doubts  despise. 
A  mild  and  manly  dignity  is  there, 
TbV  mark'd  with  age,  and  furrow'd  o'er  with  care, 
Yet  not  obscur'd  by  shame,  or  darken'd  by  despair ; 


253 


And  all  abstracted  from  the  world  he  seem'd, 
As  if  of  other  climes  and  spheres  he  dream' d ; 
For  as  he  rov'd,  the  mental  eye  he  cast 
Darkly  on  days,  and  hopes,  forever  past, 
And  something  like  reproach  he  might  have  said, 
B  ut  said  it  not — and  meekly  bow'd  his  head. 
Not  thus  he  looked,  when  in  the  hall  of  state, 
The  list'ning  crowd  approved  the  wise  debate ; 
Not  thus  he  mov'd,  when  to  the  trumpets  clang, 
The  rending  earth,  and  hollow  mountains  rang, 
And  darkening  war-clouds  gathered  o'er  the  plain, 
And  the  high  steed  disdain'd  the  rider's  rein. 

For  this  sad  man  was  once  his  country's  pride^ 
Bred  in  her  camps,  and  in  her  councils  tried ; 
And  when  she  first,  serene  in  youthful  charm, 
Gave  her  weak  hand  to  prop  a  mother's  arm, 
His  dark  eye  flash'd,  and  on  he  rush'd  to  know 
A  soldier's  want,  and  weariness,  and  woe  j 
Dauntless  in  danger,  unsubdu'd  by  pain, 
'Till  gladness  sparkled  in  her  eye  again. 

And  when,  in  later  times,  a  host  was  seen, 
\Vith  haughty  step  to  print  her  vallies  green, 
And  she  arose  with  strength,  he  with  her  rose,, 
And  firmly  aim'd  his  falchion  at  her  foes; 
Assum'd  the  statesman's  robe,  the  warrior's  crest, 
Mov'd  when  she  call'd,  and  where  she  pointed^ 

prcst. 

For  her  his  arm  was  bar'd,  his  bosom  burn'd. 
88 


254 


For  her  his  wakeful  eye  to  Heaven  was  turn'd  ; 
Nor  deem'd  it  much  that  in  her  hour  of  woe, 
He,  toil,  and  pain,  and  agony  should  know  $ 
And  little  reck'd  he  that  her  hour  of  strife 
Should  claim  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  life  ; 
But  dream'd  not  once  that  she,  for  whom  he  rov'd, 
Would  ever  glance  upon  him,  unapprov'd  ; 
Or  through  his  panting  side,  with  fury  rude, 
Plunge  the  sharp  point  of  dire  ingratitude  ; 
Or  turning  from  him  with  a  demon's  rage, 
Strew  with  fresh  thorns,  the  journey  of  his  age. 

Vet  O  my  country,  slumb'ring  on  the  steep, 
That  beetles  fiercely  o'er  the  foaming  deep, 
A  voice  is  on  the  breeze  ;  unseal  thine  eyes, 
The  still,  small  voice  of  injur'd  merit  cries: 
Arouse  thine  ancient  spirit,  rush  to  save 
A  suffering  servant,  e'er  he  seek  his  grave. 

0  man  of  sorrows  !  who  wert  wont  to  bear, 
Ev'n  in  thy  youth  the  agony  of  care, 
Who  like  a  rock  in  times  of  danger  rose, 
Be  greatly  firm  to  bear  thy  weight  of  woes. 
Vet'ran,  be  firm  !  for  on  a  threshold  dread, 
Thy  weary,  unsupported  foot  does  tread, 
The  threshold  of  the  grave ;  yet  if  no  sin, 
No  poison'd  spring  of  action  boil  within, 
If  on  the  arm  of  Deity  thou  trust, 
Mix,  free  from  terror,  with  thy  kindred  dust. 
A  day  there  is  when  thou  shalt  wake  from  sleep. 


ass 


A  world  there  is  where  thou  shalt  never  weep, 
It  brightly  gleams  o'er  Jordan's  troubled  flood; 
A  land  where  vice  shall  feel  the  avenger's  rod, 
And  virtue's  sons  in  faith  behold  their  God. 


ON  AN  INFANT, 


WHOSE    COCXTEJJANCE   DISCOVERED    UNCOMMON    TRACES    OI 
THOUGHT. 


SAY,  on  that  brow  with  beauty  fraught, 
What  hand  has  mark'd  so  deep  a  trace, 

And  given  that  cast  of  pensive  thought, 
To  what  might  seem  an  angel's  face  ? 

Parental  care  supplies  thy  want, 
Fulfills  each  wish  thy  soul  can  form, 

And  spares  no  art  to  shield  the  plant 
Of  promise  from  the  adverse  storm. 

No  grief  has  given  thy  sigh  to  flow, 
Nor  has  for  guilt  thy  bosom  bled  $ 

And  thou  hast  never  paid  to  woe 
The  tear  that  love  for  thee  has  shed. 


236 

The  cares  that  fright  the  smile  of  sleep, 
And  slowly  steal  away  our'hloom, 

The  time  to  mourn,  to  muse,  to  weep, 
To  thee,  sweet  babe,  are  yet  to  come. 

Yet  who  that  loves  with  eye  serene 
On  peace  and  innocence  to  look, 

Would  haste  to  pierce  the  sable  screen, 
That  curtains  fate's  eventful  book  ? 

No — let  its  doubtful  page  of  pains, 
In  Heaven's  decreed  oblivion  rest ; 

Nor  murmur,  while  this  truth  remains, 
That  what  our  God  ordains,  is  best. 

And  though  affection's  eager  hand 
Might  seek  to  snatch  more  joy  for  thee. 

Dear  infant,  than  thy  God"  has  plann'd, 
For  this  short  life  of  vanity  j 

Yet  if  his  love  will  guide  thy  ways, 
And  light  devotion's  holy  fire, 

And  let  thee  breathe  in  Heaven  his  praise. 
What  more  for  thee,  can  man  desire  ? 


257 


INVOCATION  TO  SOLITUDE  AND  THE 
MUSE. 


COME,  silent  nymph !  who  lov'st  the  evening 

shade. 

Whose  gentle  step  scarce  prints  the  fallen  dew. 
Whose  still  small  voice,  ah,  holy  musing  maid  ! 
Would  charm  my  early  hours  when  life  was  new  : 
Oh,  come  with  her  who  on  thy  arm  reclines, 
With  angel  features,  and  an  eye  of  fire, 
Amid  the  loose  folds  of  whose  garment  shines, 
But  half  conceal'd,  a  sweet  and  magic  lyre. 
Her  form  as  light  as  aspen  when  it  sighs, 
And  answers  to  the  breeze  that  swells  and  dies, 
When  on  the  cloud  she  soars,  or  skims  the  main, 
Or  stoops  that  mortal  ear  may  hear  her  strain. 

Oft  has  she  gently  paus'd  with  mute  caress, 
That  I,  with  infant  hand,  her  strings  might  press 
Her  soften'd  aspect  beaming  looks  of  love, 
As  fearful  o'er  the  lyre  my  hand  would  move ; 
And  all  unknown  the  cause,  I  breath'd  the  sigh, 
And  soft  unconscious  tears  o'erflo\v'd  the  eye, 
While  round  me  pourM  the  solemn  minstrelsy. 

Oft  leading  fancy's  train  she  sports  with  youth, 
Or  lights  the  sage's  eye  with  rays  of  truth  ; 


£58 


With  reason  then  she  holds  her  measured  tread, 
And  seeks  the  path  where  wisdom's  flowers  are 

shed ; 

Next  hand  in  hand  with  hope  her  track  pursues, 
And  brighter  worlds  in  raptur'd  vision  views  j 
Now  aids  the  prayer  of  piety  to  breathe, 
Gives  light  to  life,  or  calms  the  hour  of  death. 
O  deign,  celestial  pair  !  my  hours  to  cheer, 
Thy  soft  entrancing  music  let  me  hear, 
Awake  such  sounds  as  o'er  the  silent  plain, 
In  tones  harmonious  cheerM  the  shepherd  train, 
While  Heav'nly  splendour  through  the  concave 

gleam'd, 
4nd  faith  beheld  a  ruin'd  world  redeem'd. 


VICISSITUDES  OF  NATURE. 


SEE  from  her  secret  cell,  with  changeful  vest, 
And  purple  blush,  approach  returning  day. 
With  gentle  smiles  her  youthful  brow  is  drest, 
And  as  she  moves  upon  the  sunny  ray, 
In  sportive  wreaths  her  glowing  ringlets  play  f 


259 


Then  coy,  and  veil'd,  her  parting  vigil  keeps, 
Or  bathes  her  forehead  in  the  Ocean  spray  ; 
Then  closely  wrapt  in  twilights'  mantle,  sleeps, 
Wakes  at  the  call  of  morn,  and  as  she  rises, 
weeps. 

Night  changes  too  ;  tho*  like  a  mourner  clad, 
In  sable  suit,  she  passes  o'er  the  scene, 
Her  eye  is  dark,  tho*  not  forever  sad, 
But  sparkles  when  the  mild,  majestic  queen 
Moves  from  her  palace  with  a  step  serene; 
And  o'er  her  robe  a  tinge  of  silver  spreads, 
And  tipp'd  with  rays,  her  ebon  wand  is  seen, 
While  her  attendant  stars  decline  their  heads, 
Wait  for  her  sceptred  nod,  and  tremble  as  she 
treads. 

The  graceful  year  in  every  garb  appears, 
First,  sad  and  lonely,  wrapt  in  chilling  showers  j 
And  then  a  bashful  child  with  artless  fears, 
Next  as  a  blooming  maiden  crown'd  with  flowers ; 
Now  like  a  matron  lulls  the  infant  hours, 
With  softest  tones,  of  sweet  melodious  chime, 
Then  weak  and  hoary  with  enfeebled  powers, 
And  bent  beneath  the  heavy  hand  of  time, 
And  last  with  magic  strange,  renews  her  youthful 
prime. 

Whether  the  circling  year  with  glowing  locks, 
Or  infant  smiles,  or  weary  step  should  rove> 


260 


Or  dark  with  storms  that  rend  the  solid  rocks, 
Or  cloth'd  in  rays  that  gild  the  nodding  grove, 
Or  in  her  rapid  flight,  rejoicing  move, 
Still  to  the  mortal  eye,  each  change  is  fair, 
And  still  awakes  the  strain  of  grateful  love, 
From  the  meek  soul  that  feels  its  Maker's  care, 
And  sees  Him  in  His  works,  and  loves  to  praise- 
Him  there. 


MORNING  PRAYER. 


GIVER  of  light !  who  point'st  the  glorious  sun 
His  destin'd  way,  and  callest  every  star 
Forth  by  its  name,  and  causcst  day  and  night 
To  know  their  order,  and  to  speak  thy  praise ; 
All  powerful  God  !  to  whom  creation  sings 
Her  morning  matins,  let  my  mingling  prayer 
Rise  with  the  chorus,  while  the  trembling  dawn 
Dispels  the  shadows,  and  the  damps  of  night. 

Go  forth,  my  soul,  on  high  devotion's  wing, 
And  bear  thy  first  vows  to  thy  Maker's  ear, 


261 


E'er  nature  wakes,  or  the  rejoicing  aun 
Looks  from  his  chamber  on  the  rising  morn. 

0  thou  !  whose  throne  is  in  the  circling  Heavens, 
Where  the  vcilM  seraphs  stand ;  thou  wilt  not 

scorn 

The  incense  of  the  heart,  for  thou  dost  know 
My  frame,  and  thou  rememberest  I  am  dust. 

But  yet  thine  hand  did  mould  this  mass  of  clay, 
And  thy  breath  quicken  it :  nor  should  I  blush 
To  lift  my  face  to  thee,  to  speak  thy  name, 
And  call  thee  Father,  had  not  sin  so  stain'd, 
Marr'd,  and  defac'd  thy  work.     Still  be  my  God, 
Bend  to  my  prayers,  and  send  thy  Spirit  forth 
To  heal,  and  to  enlighten,  and  to  save. 

Oh,  as  a  parent  guides  and  guards  a  child, 
Oft  wandering,  yet  belov'd,  so  guide  thou  me 
This  day.     From  inward  foes,  and  hidden  ills, 
From  snares  of  youth,  from  treachery  of  man, 
Fruitless  resolves,  and  fancies  roving  wild, 
From  vanity,  and  pride,  and  dark  deceit, 
Or  whatsoever  else  might  w  ake  the  sting 
Of  conscience,  wound  another's  peace,  or  break 
Thy  holy  law,  save  me  this  day,  0  God  : 
And  let  a  warning  voice  say  to  my  soul, 
The  pure  and  watchful  eyes  of  the  Higli  Judge 
Are  on  thy  ways,  and  still  a  viewless  pen 
Moves,  never  weary,  to  record  thy  words, 


262 


Thy  deeds,  and  hidden  motives,  on  a  page, 
Not  perishable,  which  the  flame  that  burns 
The  scorch'd   and  shrinking  Heavens,  shall  so 

unfold, 

That  every  eye  may  read.     O  God,  thou  know'st 
All  my  temptations,  my  adversities, 
My  weaknesses  and  errors ;  suit  thy  gifts 
Unto  my  needs,  and  not  to  my  deserts 
Imperfect.     But  so  guide  me  on  this  earth, 
That  when  I  leave  it,  I  may  see  thy  face 
In  peace,  and  sin  no  more.     So  shall  my  prayer 
Rise  ceaseless  to  thee ;  and  my  soul  shall  rest 
Upon  thine  arm  of  love,  through  every  scene 
Of  this  day's  good  or  ill,  or  life  or  death. 
And  let  my  song  of  praise,  O  mighty  God, 
Rise  with  acceptance  from  this  house  of  clay, 
This  earthly  tenement,  soon  rent  and  broke  : 
And  let  me  on  the  cold,  dark  flood  of  death 
Be  joyful  in  thee  :  let  me  wake  the  harp 
Of  seraph  rapture,  hymning  to  the  praise 
Of  Him  who  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come, 
When  time  shall  be  no  more,  and  death  shall  die ; 
And  ages  after  ages  rolling  on, 
Fill  not  the  circle  of  Eternity. 


AT  MID-DAY. 


THOU  art  in  every  place,  Being  Supreme  ! 
Best  seen  and  worship'd,  in  thy  court  above, 
Yet  here  on  earth  thy  countenance  doth  beam 
With  rays  of  terror,  majesty,  and  love, 
Vnd joys  unspeakable  thy  smile  do  move  ; 
And  none  may  veil  him  from  thy  piercing  sight, 
Escape  thine  hand,  or  from  thy  presence  rove  ; 
Or  hide  in  secret  cells  close  wrapt  in  night, 
For  unto  thee  the  darkness  shineth  as  the  light. 

Thou  dwellest  where  the  curtain'd  whirlwinds  hide ; 
Where  the  arm'd  thunder  walks  his  lofty  round  ,• 
Thou  on  the  tempest  of  the  night  dost  ride, 
Flames  mark  thy  path,  and  clouds  thy  car  sur 
round, 

And  mighty  winds  are  rous'd,  and  surging  bill- 
lows  sound, 

While  from  thine  eye  the  winged  lightnings  part  j 
Thou  in  the  highest  arch  of  Heaven  art  found  ; 
In  the  dark  regions  of  the  earth  thou  art, 
And  in  the  humble  mansion  of  the  contrite  heart. 

With  fear  I  bow  me  at  thine  awful  seat ; 
How  to  thy  holy  presence  dare  I  press  ! 


264 


But  hark  $  a.  voice  celestial  seems  to  meet 

My  waiting  ear,  and  my  intrusion  bless, 

-**  Spread  before  me  your  wants  and  your  distress, 

Upon  mine  arm  of  strength  your  burdens  cast, 

An  intercessor  fills  the  holy  place." 

I  come  ;  the  hour  of  terror  now  is  past, 

I  trust  thou  wilt  not  leave  me  comfortless  at  last. 

Oh  !  if  the  storms  of  life  with  bitter  rage, 
Upon  my  sad,  unshelter'd  head  should  blow, 
If  trembling  down  the  cold,  dark  steep  of  age, 
My  weak  and  unsupported  step  should  go, 
My  heart  all  sunk  with  weariness  and  woe, 
Or  wheresoe'er  my  unknown  path  shall  tend, 
Still  let  my  bosom  at  thy  presence  glow, 
Still  let  my  ceaseless  prayers  to  thec  ascend, 
And  ever  to  my  wants  thy  kind  compassion  lend. 


EVENING  PRAYER. 


WHILE  slow  and  soft  the  evening  ray  expires, 
And  lights  devotion's  meek,  unwavering  fires, 
While  dark  rob'd  night,  on  her  composing  breast, 


205 


Lulls  all  the  vexing  cares  of  earth  to  rest, 
My  soul  once  more  from  vain  delusions  free, 
Lifts  up  her  hopes  and  her  desires  to  thee ; 
Low  at  thy  much  lov'd  name  her  spirits  bend, 
Eternal  Father,  and  eternal  Friend  ! 
Still  as  thine  hand  my  op'ning  journey  gilds, 
Thine  arm  supports  me,  and  thy  favour  shields ; 
My  hoard  supplies,  my  downy  couch  prepares, 
Gives  all  my  gifis,  and  comforts  all  my  cares. 
How  can  my  heart  such  deeds  of  love  forget  ? 
How  turn  away  from  its  increasing  debt  ? 
How  hang  on  earthly  hopes  with  fruitless  pain, 
And  wounded  oft,  so  oft  return  again  ? 
Yet  while  these  scenes  of  joy  around  me  rise, 
My  conscious  bosom  heaves  repentant  sighs, 
Some  turbid  springs  the  chrystal  fount  pollute, 
Some  noxious  roots,  display  their  bitter  fruit, 
And  ere  the  glow  of  grateful  joy  can  rise, 
At  memory's  stern  demand  it  fades  and  dies  j 
"  Have  not  thine  eyes  been  blind,  thy  feelings  cold  ? 
Hast  thou  not  wandered  from  thy  shepherd's  fold  I" 
Oh,  raise  again  thy  suppliant !  let  her  see, 
Her  hope  renew'd,  her  pardon  seal'd  by  thee, 
Her  foot  made  firm  to  press  this  troubled  soil, 
Her  arm  made  strong,  for  each  appointed  toil, 
And  when  the  heart  shall  ask,  the  knee  shall  bend, 
Still  to  those  prayers  thy  favouring  ear  extend. 

Oh,  break  these  ties  of  vanity,  that  bind 
In  sway  so  strict  the  free,  immortal  mind* 

24 


266 


Unseal  iny  eyes,  dispel  the  powers  that  keep 
The  cold,  dull  heart  in  this  perpetual  sleep ; 
Let  thy  blest  name  awake  my  warmest  praise, 
Thy  presence  awe  me,  and  thy  comforts  raise, 
Thy  Spirit  cleanse,  thy  grace  destroy  my  sin, 
Thy  mercy  soothe  me  when  my  days  decline, 
Thine  arm  support  me  on  that  chilling  flood 
Which  shuts  my  mourning  soul  from  Heaven  and 
God. 

Oh,  place  hefore  my  eyes  in  sad  array 
The  solemn  scenes  of  that  departing  day. 
The  withered  form,  the  weak  and  powerless  hand, 
The  chill,  cold  drops  that  on  the  temples  stand, 
The  faint,  lost  voice,  the  long  and  bursting  sigh, 
The  last  light  fading  from  the  started  eye, 
The  slow,  deep  groan  by  racking  torture  wrung, 
The  last,  sad  dirge  by  trembling  mourner's  sung, 
The  ghastly  cheek,  the  heaving  bosom  pain'd, 
The  heart-strings  rent,   the  nerve   of  anguish 

strain'd, 

The  death-dews  resting  on  the  stiffen'd  form, 
The  ready  pit,  the  darkness,  and  the  worm ! 

Ev'n  at  this  distant  view  my  spirits  fade, 

And  life's  quick  pulse  moves  fluttering  and  afraid  $ 

But  hark  !  a  secret  sound  is  in  my  ear, 

"  Fear  not  (it  seems  to  say,)  for  I  am  near ; 

For  tho*  this  form  of  clay  may  sink  in  pain, 

From  earth  first  drawn,  and  bound  to  earth  again, 


267 


Yet  no  dark  vault  shall  claim  the  deathless  mind, 
No  chains  of  hell  the  struggling  soul  shall  bind, 
That  like  a  captive  naked  and  afraid, 
Perceives  its  fetters  burst,  its  ransom  paid, 
Its  crimes  eras'd,  its  many  sins  forgiven, 
And  short  the  way  to  an  accepting  Heaven." 

This  voice,  0  everlasting  Friend,  is  thine  ! 
I  cannot  fear,  or  murmur,  or  repine  j 
I  rise  securely,  and  securely  sleep, 
For  near  my  bed  thy  watchful  spirits  keep, 
And  on  my  waking  eye  thine  eye  is  bent, 
And  to  my  feeble  steps  thine  aid  is  lent, 
And  on  my  ear  thy  voice  of  promise  sighs, 
And  in  my  heart  thy  planted  hopes  arise. 

What  shall  I  dread  tho*  joy  be  drown'd  in  tears, 

And  life  be  dark  with  frowns,  and  death  with  fears  ? 

If  thou  wilt  only  deign  my  steps  to  guide, 

My  heart  to  cheer,  and  o'er  my  thoughts  preside ; 

Then  with  firm  step  each  thorny  path  I'll  tread, 

To  trials  bow  my  unrepining  head, 

Bare  my  meek  breast  to  each  appointed  dart, 

With  calmness  feel  the  last  convulsive  start, 

For  thou  wilt  bear  my  sinking  spirit  up, 

God  of  my  life,  and  fountain  of  my  hope. 


PAGE  34— line  1st,  for  O  Thou,  read  Tliou  at. 
48 — line  7th,  for  lay,  read  lie. 
49— line  7th,  for  trackess,  read  trackless. 
67— line  21st,  for  criteria,  read  criterion. 
80— line  12th,  for  Fraklin,  read  Franklin. 
J09— line  17th,  for  were,  read  wove. 


SUBSCRIBERS  NAMES. 


HARTFORD. 

Walter  Mitchell,  3 
Ephraim  Root, 
George  Goodwin,  Jr. 
Samuel  Root, 
Wm.  W.  Ellsworth, 
Samuel  Whiting, 
Lorenzo  Bull, 
James  S.  Seymour, 
Charles  Goodwin, 
D.  Wadsworth,  10 
Lucius  Bull, 
Luther  P.  Sargeant,- 
Samuel  Tinker, 
Edward  Caldwell, 
George  Chase, 
Samuel  G.  Goodrich,, 
Noah  A.  Phelps, 
Henry  Holmes, 
Fred.'  W.  Hotchklss, 
Charles  L.  Porter, 
John  A.  Hempsted, 
Arelyn  Sedgwick, 
John  Bennett,  Jun. 
Henry  Ml^ean, 
James  Butler, 
Thomas  Tryon, 
Frederick  Bange, 
H.  W.  Huntington, 
Daniel  P.  Hopkins, 


George  S.  Butler^ 
Wanton  Ransom, 
Mehitabel  Wads- 
worth,  5 

Faith  Wadsworth,  5 
Catherine  Terry,  5 
Mary  A.  Cogswell,  2 
James  H.  Wells, 
James  Ward, 
Orra  Seymour, 
B.  Hudson,  2 
J.  Watson,    -^^ 
Mrs.  L.  Watkinson, 
Maria  T.  Hudson,  2 
Mrs  T.  Chester, 
Amelia  M.  Phelps,  2 
Cypriam  Nichols,    - 
John  Caldwell,  3 
Samuel  Tudor,  Jun. 
William  Watson, 
George  Goodwin,  2 
Mrs.  O.  Wutkinson, 
Nancy  Watson,  2 
Nbrmand  Smith, 
Zachariah  Mills, 
George  Putman, 
John  H.  Wells, 
Daniel  Crowell, 
\aron  Chapin, 
William  Galhudet, 


Caleb  Goodwin, 
Allyn  Goodwin, 
Isabella  Curtis,  .— . 
Dwell  Morgan, 
J.  K.  Scarborough, 
William  B.  Dewitt, 
Michael  Shepard,    - 
James  Thomas, 
William  Lawrence,  . 
James  Moore, 
L.  R.  Griswold, 
Sarah  C.  Day, 
Lydia  Coit, 
Mary  T.  Danforth, 
Benjamin  Cramptonj 
A.  Bigelow,  Jun. 
Frederick  Oakes, 
Elizabeth  Buck, 
George  J.  Patten,  2 
Delia  Williams,  2 
Eliza  L.  Royce, 
Martha  Chenevard, 
Nathaniel  Spencer, 
Mary  Ann  Lee, 
Harriot  Kingsbury, 
Philip  Saunders, 
Richard  Montague; 
Henry  Lathrop, 
David  Ladd, 
Milter  Fish> 


SUBSCRIBERS  NAMES. 


Miss  Olcott, 

Geoge  A,  Steel, 

Amzi  Porter, 

Thomas  Lloyd, 

uabez  R;pley, 

Anson  Kilbom, 

Alfred  A.  Bradley, 

Jolm  Trumbull, 

Ab^ail  Andrews, 

Edward  Perkins," 
Peter  Thatcher, 

j  Francis  Strong, 
Mary  Woodbndge, 

Eliza  Boradman, 
Elizabeth  Cowles, 

Ward  &.  Bartholo-  ? 

T.  Glover, 

Hiram  Hart, 

mew,                  5 

Amos  Bull, 

Chauncey  Sweet, 

Daniel  Dewey,  ^_  . 

Betsey  Benton, 

Richard  Cowles, 

Heman  Bunce, 

E.  S.  Bellamy,  2 

Sidney  Hart, 

Wm.  Wadsworth, 

A-  KJbourn, 

Lucy  Scott, 

Charles  Shepardr 

Hannah  Marsh, 

Charlotte  Cowles, 

Abby  Beach, 

Jane  Sigouniey, 

Alfred  Cowles, 

Freeman  Shepard, 
Ruth  Goodwin, 

Elizabeth  Carter, 
Nathaniel  Terry,  10 

Truman  Gridley, 
John  Sweet, 

Daniel  Hopkins, 

H.  Hudson, 

/Fm.  G.  Andrus, 

Asa  Farwell, 

Mary  May, 

Catherine  /relies, 

Sarah  Hopkins, 
Emily  Perkins, 

E.  C.  Lord, 
Moses  Goodman, 

Joseph  Burrows, 
George  Norton, 

.Mary  Ann  Bull, 
Ruth  Porter,  »  

icussel  Pem~, 
Sarah  H.  Seymour, 

Samuel  Tdletson, 
Edw;ird  Porter, 

Delia  Bull, 

Edwin  Seymour, 

John  Fairchild, 

Eunice  Wadsworth; 

Jared  Scarborough. 

Elizabeth  /rhitman. 

Vancy  Hopkins, 

East  Hurtfod. 

Chester  Hamlin, 

John  Leffingwell, 

Sarah  Belden, 

Gideon  Huntley, 

Electa  Kimberly, 

Lucretxa  Sjiionds, 

.^edediah  Hammond, 

George  Smith,  '" 

Titus  Merrill, 

Haruch  Huntley, 

Roderick  Lawrence, 

Anna  Roberts, 

Russell  Crane, 

Ela  Burnap, 
Joseph  Church, 

Eljah  Randall, 
Eiisha  Anuerson, 

Putnam  Churchill^ 

Elizabeth  Gay, 

XutJian  Morgan, 

Deborah  Cotton, 

Susan  Strong1, 

Tlios.  Bclden,  Jun. 

Anny  Lester, 

Caroline  Camp, 

John  B.  Williams, 

W 

Martha  Flagg, 

•osiali  Bames, 

Susan  Goodwin, 

John  Ohnsted, 

John  Treadwcll. 

S.,ml.  Kellogg,  Jun. 

Delia  Piik.n. 

John  King,  -™». 

Hcrtland. 

R  Iph  Wells, 

Windsor. 

rulia  Selden. 

H.  A.  Huntington, 

Xancy  Ellsworth, 

Lucy  Clapp, 

Xancy  Gillet, 

n'ethersfield. 

Isaac  Guernsey, 

Henrj-  W.ls  n, 

^lizabeth  Cheste^ 

Joseph  Fuller, 

Cleone  Warner, 

"harlott  Chester,* 

El  zabeth  Storer, 

Persia  Drake. 

iulia  Chester, 

Emel.ne  Hall, 

East  Windsor. 

Rebecca  Mitchell, 

Joseph  Trumbull,  2 

Miss  H.  Watson, 

'Ferny  Hopkins, 

J.  W.  Copeland, 

'  'alv  n  Chap  n, 

B.  L.  Hamlcn, 

Farmington. 

Hrrr.et  B.  Webb, 

W.  A.  Glover, 

M.  Cowles, 

E.  W.ll:;:ms,2d 

ftaac  Jones,  Jun.  2 

Hannuk  Root, 

John  Williams, 

SUBSCRIBERS    NAMES, 


Asher  Robbins, 

Samuel  S.  Stebins, 

T.  A.  Marshall, 

Stephen  M.  Chester, 

Samuel  I.  Hitchcock, 

C.  H.  Hammond, 

Charles  MitchelL 

John  W.  Strong, 

John  Pope, 

Stephen  G.  Austin, 

T.  M.  Alston, 

Marlborough. 

T.  Smith, 

George  Morris, 

Dolly  Petlis, 

I.  P.  Taylor, 

Joseph  A.  Kerr, 

Jeruslia  Foote, 

Oliver  E.  Wdliams, 

James  S.  Burr, 

Mary  Buell, 

Nathan  R.  Smith, 

E.  F.  Wickham, 

Daniel  Smith, 

T.  T.  Whittlesey, 

G.  B.  Campbell, 

Apollas  D.  Bates, 

Chauncey  I.  Foot, 

Sitffield. 

Josiah  Hooker, 

Miles  Goodveur, 

Lucinda  Hathaway, 

John  B.  Legare, 

John  S.  WaLh, 

Jonathan  Pomeroy, 

J.  H.  Beuthuysen, 

Charles  Jesup, 

Cloe  L.  Parsons. 

Thomas  Turner,  2 

Nathan  Smith, 

J.  D.  Wickham, 

Aeneas  Monson,  Jr. 

JfEW-HAVEA". 

Joseph  Youle, 

George  Rich, 

Wm.  E.  Gallaudet, 

Samuel  H.  Mead, 

John  G.  Shoolbred, 

G.  W.  Broome, 

Alexis  Painter, 

Joseph  H.  Breck, 

Lydia  Kingsly, 

Thomas  M.  Colston, 

Edward  Allen, 

Sophia  T.  Pyncheon, 

Giles  11.  Swan, 

R.  J.  Chesebrough, 

Holmes  Maltby, 

Horace  H.  Still, 

Samuel  C.  Williams, 

Henry  Hubbard,_ 

Samuel  Griswold,  Jr. 

John  H.  Kain, 

Sally  Warner, 

George  S.  Robbins,- 

J.  A.  Fox, 

Nancy  W.  Goodrich, 

Ezekiel  Sanford, 

Thomas  Gray, 

Nathan  Beers,  - 

Simeon  T.  Kobbe, 

Horatio  Gridley, 

Samuel  P.  Davis, 

William  Nevins, 

Frederic  White, 

Thomas  Miles, 

Urinl  Holmes,  Jun. 

Horatio  Conunt, 

S.  G.  Chu-ke,  - 

Erasmus  Norcross, 

T.  S.  Woodhull, 

Samuel  Menvin, 

Elnathan  Mitchell, 

George  W.  Stone.,  - 

Ijeonard  A.  Daggett, 

James  Hillhouse,  2 

W.  T.  Gould,  

Isaac  Mills, 

Theodocia  Woolsey, 

\Vm.  Codm.in, 

H.  Aug-ur,  Jun. 

Elizabeth  Woolsey, 

Wm.  C.  Wetmore, 

John  Clark,  Jun. 

C.  M.  Leffingwell, 

Wm.  W.  Woolsey, 

W.  Ilotchkiss, 

Augustus  B.  Street, 

Edward  Clark, 

Jonathan  Daggett, 

Genj.  M.  Woolsey, 

Thomas  Munroe,  - 

Miss  Polly  SmLtli, 

Henry  E.  Dwight^_ 

W  C.  Woodbr.dge. 

W.  W.  Forrest, 

Mary  U.  Lyon, 

Lewis  Sc  Jones, 

Marj-  Dwight,  —  ^ 

Humfihreyan  ille. 

Elizabeth  Gumming1, 

Laury  M'oolsey, 

David  Humphreys. 

Charles  Crocker, 

Julia  Ann  Porter,  ~- 

Giles  Mansfield, 

J.imes  A.  Hillliouse, 

JfEW-LOX'nOJt. 

Peter  Fergurson, 

John  M.  Woolsey, 

Jon.  W.  Perkins, 

Charles  Dummer, 

\ug.  L.  Hillhouse, 

Ellen  E.  Perkins,  - 

Miss  S.  Whittlesey, 

Mary  Ann  Ch:.ppatin 

Mary  Perkins, 

Sims  White, 

Benjamin  Silliman,  2 

Lucretia  Perkins, 

Thomas  Dwight,^- 

Mrs.  E.  Trumbull,  2 

\.  A.  IVrk.ns, 

De.n'v>  Kunberly, 

J.  Davis, 

—  .-••- 

1*  M.  WocKlIn-i'I 

SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Rev.  Shaw  Perkins, 
Elihu  Crocker, 
Ann  W.  Peck, 
Mary  W.  Coit, 
Horace  Munson, 
N.  Burdick,  Jr. 
Asa  Avery, 
Joshua  M.  Young1, 
Alfred  Pember. 

Colchester. 
Henry  Champion, 
Israel  Wells, 
R.  Chamberlin, 
Otis  Kellogg, 
Lucy  Kellogg, 
Rensselaer  Rathbun, 
Joseph  Kinsman, 
Daniel  Kellogg,  2d. 
Ruth  Starks, 
Mary  Braggins, 
David  Deming, 
Nancy  Watrous, 
Sarah  Isham, 
Alvenus  Cone, 
James  Rud, 
Polly  Tisdel, 
Nelson  Bill, 
Charles  C.  P  Goold, 
Wm.  Worthington. 

Norwich. 

Thomas  Hubbardf 
Calvin  Goddard, 
D.  L.  Co  t, 
James  Stedman, 
Francis  M.  Cakwins, 
El.s  a  Leffingwill, 
Samuel  Avery, 
Mary  Strong, 
J.  Huntington, 
Henry  Nevens, 
H.  Murray, 
David  Austin, 
Luther  Spalding, 
J.  G.  W.  Trumbull, 
.Ann  H.  Lathrop, 


Harry  Avery, 
David  Nevms,  2 
Edward  Thomas, 
George  W.  Lee, 
Joseph  Huntington, 
G.  L.  L'Hommedieu, 
Ebenezer  Bachus, 
Aaron  Cleveland, 
Elizabeth  Newbury, 
Lydia  Spalding, 
Simeon  Rud, 
Francis  H.  Perkins, 
Horace  Colton, 
Judah  Hart, 
Wm.  Loring, 
Samuel  Rudd, 
Ehsha  Tracy, 
Abigail  G.  Carew, 
Dorcas  Mansfield,  - 
Ebenezer  Carew, 
Charles  J.  Lanman, 
Harriet  Clark, 
Faith  T.  Huntington, 
Mary  Ann  Hillhouse 

MIDDLETO  JVJV. 

Elijah  Hubbard, 
Mrs.  Sebor, 
Mrs.  Magill, 
Miss  M.  Wolcott, 
Mrs.  Dekoven, 
Miss  M.  Alsop, 
Mrs.  Shalor, 
John  Alsop, 
Lucy  Alsop, 
Ehz.  Whitlesey, 
Mrs.  Stirk, 
Mary  Baury, 
Elizabeth  Magill, 
Mrs.  Macdonough, 
Martha  Williams, 
Maria  Mather, 
Richard  Alsop, 
Mrs.  N.  Watklnson, 
Mrs.  T.  A.  Mather, 
Lydia  Hubbard, 
Eliza  Storrs, 


Sally  Southmayd, 
Miss  C.  B.  Sage, 
Fane  Andrews, 
Mary  Hubbard.     - 

North-Kittingsiovrth  - 
Mabel  Kelsey, 
Betsey  Pierson.    "~" 

FAIRFIELD.. 

Priscilla  Ely, 
David  Burr, 
Susana  Hull, 
Stephen  Beers. 

Stratford. 
Mrs.  Divereux,  3 
S.  W.  Johnson,  3 
A.  F.  Johnson,  2 
Mary  L.Rexford, 
Catherine  O.  Walker 
Mary  Ann  Booth, 
Elizabeth  Lovejoy, 
Matthew  R.  Dutton, 
Wm.  A.  Tomlinson, 
Elijah  Mai-shall, 
Miss  S.  How, 
Mrs.  Otis, 
Asa  Curtis,  .    . 
M.  Nicoll, 
James  Baker, 
Ann  Poor, , 
Frederick  Olmstead. 
Alice  Coe, 
Maria  C.  M'Ewen, 
Sarah  Judson, 
Sidney  Wetmore., 
Mrs.  Rudd. 

JVonvaflc. 
Samuel  Burcalf, 
A.  &  H.  Beers, 
Moris  Bulkley, 
Daniel  Smithj 
Esther  M.  Cannom 
Txivi  Clinton, 


SUBSCRIBERS    NAMES. 


Danbury. 

Jesse  Sterling, 

Amos  Cone, 

John  W.  Gold, 

Rowland  Sherman, 

Rev.  D.  D.  Rosseen., 

Alexander  Shaw, 

William  Wright,  —- 

Mabel  Dart,    

Z'*x  Joyce, 

Agor  Beach, 

Amasa  Bridges,  Jr. 

S.  Osburn,  .^ 

Wm.  Roberts,  Jr.  — 

Martin  Shepard, 

Eunice  Seeley, 

Timothy  Pettit, 

Josiah  Strong,  Jr; 

Daniel  Rowland, 

Eliza  Hubbell, 

Ichabod  Warner, 

Dyer  Whitmore, 

ohn  W.  Lamb,  -• 

Sally  JFilliams, 

Hariot  Whitlcsey, 

Catherine  Hubbell, 

Eunice  M'Cray, 

Evelina  Comstock, 

Mary  Ann  Foot, 

Nat.  Hammond, 

James  Warner,  — 

jucretia  Camfieldj 

Solomon  Strong, 

Thomas  Johnston, 

Mmerra  Peit, 

Daniel  Lord,  Jr. 

Benjamin  S.  Jarris, 

..aTinia  Blackman, 

Eunice  Loomiss, 

Elias  Sanford, 

^aura  Hubbell, 

John  Pettit. 

William  Andrus, 

Jolly  Lewis, 

"Samuel  Trucely,  jr. 
Catherine  Cooke, 
Elij:ih  Foot, 
Ira  Hodges, 
Eliz.  Townsend, 
Hezekiah  Nickols,. 
John  Fnr, 

iaiTiot  Brooks, 
larriot  Edwads,  2 
H.  F.  Edwards,  2 
Mrs.  C.  Cannon, 
Abigail  Rochford. 

LITCHFIELD. 

•/L'tluOVCF. 

Achsah  Loomis;, 
Betsey  Duggett, 
Harvey  Kingsbury, 
Sophia  Ensworth, 
Emilia  Loomis, 
Russel  Gilbert^ 

Josiah  B.  Weed, 
Joseph  Robinson,  - 
Stephen  Gregory,  jr. 
Oliver  Burr, 

Frederick  WTolcott, 
Uriel  Holmes, 
Morris  Woodruff. 

Alanson  Fox,   - 
Mary  BUtckman, 
Ann  House, 
Mary  Sprague. 

Platt  Benedict, 

Sharon. 

Hebron. 

Henry  French. 

John  Cotton  Smith,  2 

Sarah  Shepard,    - 

Margaret  Smith, 

Sally  Sumner, 

Tnimbull. 

Helen  Smith,  —  - 

Abby  Maria  Gilbert 

Betsey  Slater. 

El;za  Canh'eld, 

Andrew  Wells, 

Bulah  H.  Muton, 

Samuel  Peters, 

Black  Rock. 

Eliza  Everston. 

Rubin  Godfrey, 

Hetty  Sayre. 

Joel  Phelps,   —  — 

Goshen. 

Henry  Strong, 

Bridgeport. 

N.  Buel. 

William  Scot, 

Porter  Sturges, 

Jonathan  Page, 

Nathaniel  S.  Hubbell 

Watertovm. 

Almira  Gillet, 

Elijah  Waterman, 

John  H.  DeForest. 

John  Groves, 

Mrs.  Henman, 

R.  Gilbert, 

Rachel  King,     ~~ 

NewMilford. 

Anna  Gilbert,  -m- 

Rebecca  M.  Starr, 

Ann  E.  Lane. 

Mary  M-  Peters. 

Abigail  Skinner, 

Simeon  Buchus, 

BOLTOJY. 

COLUMBIA. 

Is;iac  Jones, 

Abner  Loom  is, 

L.  Woodward, 

Christian  Mitchell, 
Crane  Spinning-, 

Sidly  Loomis, 
'Sophia  Alvord, 

Sara\  Ann  Steel, 
'Alanson  Littlej 

SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Rowena  Bliss, 
Achs:ih  Clark, 
Esther  Foot, 
SJas  Fuller, 
George  Loomis, 
L.  Hosmer, 
Joseph  Loomis,  Jr. 

Brooklyn. 
John  Parish, 

Exeter. 
Flavia  Marsh, 
Ambrose  Williams, 
Sophia  Lamb. 


JBOSTOJY. 

airs.  M  C.  Derby,  2 
Ann  McLean, 
Anna  Lloyd, 
Eliza  Sumner, 
Mrs.  J.  C.  Warren,  2 
.Mrs.  A.  Wells,  2 
Sarah  C.  Lowell, 
Benjamin  Pollard, 
Mrs.  Warren, 
Wm.  P.  Sigourney  2 

Mrs. 

Mrs.  B.  Joy, 
Mrs.  T.  Motley, 
.Mrs.  R.  Derby, 
Catharine  Prescott, 
Mrs.C.  Stewart,  2 
Lydia  Smith,  2 
Mrs.  R.  S.  Gardiner 
Mrs.  S.  Perkins, 
Mrs.  G.  Blake,  2 
Eliza  H.  Bordwm, 
Miss  Wiliams, 
Mrs.  Codman, 
.Mrs.  J.  Perkins, 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  2 
Sarah  B.  Dearborn  3 
Sarah  B.  Sullivan, 
Anslip  Ptckman, 


Elizabeth  Pickman, 
Martha  Pickman, 
Sully  D.  West, 
Mrs.  Humphr)  a, 
W.  C.  Alwyn, 
Ann  Porter,  2 
H.  C.  Sumner, 
Mrs.  M.  Sumner, 
MrsW.E.  Channmg, 
Mrs.  S.  Pomeroy, 
Mrs.  M.  C.  Olive 
George  Cabbot,  3 
H.  G.  Otis,  3 
Timothy  Bigelow,  2 
Wm.  Prescott,  2 
Mrs.  Horce  Holly, 
Benjamin  A.  Gould, 
Mrs.  Samuel  May, 
.Mrs.  Jane  Minot, 
.•Mrs.  Wm.  Minot, 
Mrs.  Charles  Davis, 
Mrs.  Henry  Bass, 
.Mrs.W.  A.  Warren, 
Benjamin  Taylor, 
Miss  Bremmer, 
!Mary  Wheeler, 
John  Miller, 
|Daniel  Parkman, 
Sarah  Lawrence, 
Sarah  Richards, 
H.  D.  Sedgwick, 
Lucretia  Knapp, 
Wm.  T.  Andrews, 
.Mrs.  J.  Parker,  Jun. 
/Mrs.  S.  G.  Perkins, 
Mrs.  G.  Brenley, 
Doct  Jas.  Jackson, 
.Mrs.  George  G.  Lee, 
.Mrs.  James  Dull, 
Mrs.  Bussey, 
Wm.  Porter, 
Caroline  Holley, 
John  Dull, 
Samuel  H.  Walley,  2 
T.  Walley, 
E.  Tuckerman,  jr.  2 
Rev.  F.  Parkman, 


Jonathan  Phillips, 
Rev.  Jed.  Morse,  2 
Rev.  A.  Holmes, 
Samuel  Salsbury,  2 
A.  P.  Cleaveland, 
J.  A.  Cumming,  3 
E.  C.  Whitman, 
Moses  Grunt,  Jun. 
Benjamin  Allen,  2 
Mrs.  Wm.  Phillips, 
Saml.  Salsbury,  Jun. 
Josiah  Salsbury,  2 

Charlestmvn. 
Mrs.  Bainbridge, 

Cambridge. 
T.  T.  Kirkland. 

Salem. 
Rebecca  Dodgev^*^ 
Judith  Norris, 
.Mrs.  M.  Massey, 
Mrs.  M.  Sprague, 
Mrs.  John  Derby, 
Mary  Osgood,  . 
Mrs.  M.  H.  Tucker, 
Eliza  Sheperd, 
Miss  H.  A.  Jinks, 
Sally  Ropes, 
Mary  Proctor, 
Rebeca  Dean, 
J.  B.  Lawrence, 
John  Jinks,  6 
iWm.  Dean,  2 

Marble-Head. 
Benjamin  J.  Reed,    " 
Debby  Hooper, 
Eunice  Hooper, 
Mary  I.  Hooper,  - 
Polly  R.  Hooper, 
Lydia  Blackler, 
Sarah  Dana,  2 
Mary  Russell, 
jLydia  Meek. 


SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Medford, 
H.  L.  Tyler, 
Miss  H.  Hall,  2 
Mary  Hall, 
Hannah  C.  Hall, 
Miss  A.  Rose, 
Miss  N.  Swan,  2 
Mary  Stearns, 
E.  H.  Derby,  Jun. 

Plymouth. 
Joshua  Thomas. 

Portland. 
S.  Longfellow,  Jr.  2 

Ifallawell. 
Sam  S.  fTilde,  2 

Worcester. 
Daniel  Waldo,  2 

Springfield. 
George  Bliss. 

West  Springfield. 
Hannah  Kent, 
Fanny  Hazen, 
Jere  Stebbins. 

Northampton. 
Joseph  Lyman,  2 
Cecil  Dwight, 
D.  C.  Bush, 
Francis  Whitney, 
Joseph  Cook, 
George  Parsons. 


NEW-YORK. 

J.  Rodman, 
wrs.  G.  C.  Verpknk, 
Anthony  Bleeker, 
James  Fennow, 
H.  Beeverout,  Jun. 
Cambriel  Wissner, 


William  S.  Lane, 
P.  R.  Starr, 
Henry  Wheeler, 
Wm.  W.  Chester, 

E.  White,  2 
Amos  Palmer, 
nrs.  Vandervoort, 
Harriot  Brown, 
D.  Austin, 
Frederick  Sheldon, 
B.  E.  Rrimner, 

M.  Davis,  2  -*^- 
Jonathan  Haggerty, 
Amos  Butler, 
John  B.  Flemming, 
P.  Flanden, 
Faith  J.  Huntington, 
Mrs.  J.  Foot, 
>irs.  I.  Stuart 
A.  O.  Stansbury,    2 
Jonathan  F.  Gould, 
Samuel  Whittimore, 
Isaac  Margarand, 

F.  Seymour, 
Edmund  D.  Barry. 
William  Starr, 
John  Juhel, 
James  Jones, 

J.  Harrison, 
Miss  Laight,  2 
Mrs.  J.  R.  Murray,  3 
W.  W.  Chester, 
Henry  P.  Rogers, 
John  F.  Cox, 
J.  M.  Prentis, 
Elias  J.  Dayton, 
F.  B.  Winthrop,  S 
Egbert  Benson,  Jun. 
Samuel  B.  Murray,. 
J.  K.  M.lnor, 
John  S.  Winthrop, 
MISS  M.  A.  Davenport 
Elias  E.  Boudinot, 
Richard  Stockton, 
William  G.  Bull,  10 
George  M.  Tracy. 
Thomas  Barrow, 


Hudson. 
John  Chester, 
Henry  Chester. 

Fishkill. 
Mrs.  Allen,  2 
Mrs.  Verplank,  2 
Emily  Verplank,  2 
Mary  Verplank, 
J.  Verplank, 
S.  Verplank, 
Miss  J.  P.  DeWint, 
Elizabeth  DeWint. 

Granville. 

Rebecca  Woolsey, 

William  Caton,  Jun. 

Sally  Done, 

Henry  Slaid, 

William  Hollister, 

Xathan  Done, 

Maj.  Gen.  Alexan 
der  M'Comb 

Capt.M.  T.WoolO 
sey,  (Navy.)       5 


an-> 

,    5 


Parish-Villc. 
Maj.  H.  L.  Woolsey. 

Pittsburgh. 
I.  L.  Woolsey, 
M.  L.  Woolsey. 

Utica. 
Sophia  Clark. 


PORTSMOUTH. 

Thomas  L.  Elwyn. 

Hanover. 
Miles  Olcott.  2 

Rockingham. 
William  Hall,  Jun.  2 


SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES, 


MIDDLE  BURY. 

MISS  E.  A.  Ralston, 

Mary  Hamilton, 

Frederick  Hall. 

El.hu  Chauncey, 
Henrietta  Chauncey, 

Mary  Ann  Lyle, 
Ellen  Lyle, 

PROVIDENCE. 

Sarah  C.  Levy, 
Elias  I.  Dayton, 

M!SS  H.  Emlin, 
Mary  Emlin, 

Daniel  Lyman. 

Joseph  Hopkinson, 

wiss  E.  Francis, 

Paris  Dyer, 

Henrietta  M.  Levy, 

George  Harrison, 

H  iram  B;irker, 

Sarah  Atherton, 

WilLam  Short, 

Mira  Elderkin, 

Anna  Fox,  . 

T.  B.  Barclay, 

Wm.  L'//on»edieu. 

Horace  Benney,  3 

P.  Holl  ings  worth, 

Maria  Benney, 

Mary  HolLngsworth 

Neiv-Port. 

Elizabeth  Powel 

Bird"  Wilson, 

B.  Hazard. 

Sophia  Harrison, 

Gertrude  Meridith, 

Elizabeth  P.  Fisher, 

Eliz.  Macpherson, 

Johnston. 

Mrs.  W.  Wain, 

Elizabeth  Binney, 

Edward  Manton. 

Miss  Wilcox, 

Mary  Binny  2d. 

Charlotte  Wiggin,_. 

ELz.  B.  Hopkmson, 

PHILADELPHIA 

wrs.  C.  W.  Hare, 
Mrs.  S.  Emlen, 

William  Smith, 
E.  S.  Sergeant, 

Charles  Chauncey,  5 

MISS  R.  Ralston, 

Samuel  Shoemaker, 

Mrs.  H.  Chauncey, 

MISS  S.  Chester, 

Charles.  H  Forrest. 

NORWICH. 

John  Grey, 

Sterling. 

Epaphras  Porter, 

George  Hill. 

wary  Field. 

Martha  Harrington, 

Mary  L.  Hyde, 

Plainfield. 

£o:ra. 

Francis  Booth, 

MTS.  E.  Robinson, 

Fanny  Fitch.  - 

Sully  Goodell, 

George  //ill, 

//arrie*  Parish, 

Wm,  E,  Robinson. 

University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

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